A Family Affair
by Angylaidd
Summary: When Mary is assassinated, John must deliver his own twins on the sidewalk. What follows is the sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes humorous tale of our intrepid pair who hunt down Mary's killers while learning to raise twins on their own - and must face the overarching truth of their own relationship that they have, thus far, ignored. Will add on demand. :)
1. Chp One: Bad News, Babies & Best Friends

Chapter One: Bad News, Babies, and Best Friends, January

_Bling!_

_ Maybe it wasn't him on the roof,_ Sherlock thought, eyes staring sightlessly across the living room as he thought. And thought._ No. It was him._ He tapped his forefingers together.

_Bling!_

_ What am I taking for granted? That is where the error lies._

_ Bling!_

_ All right. Again. Backwards. Was it absolutely blood and brain that I saw? Beyond a shadow of a doubt? Regardless of what came before, could it have been something else?_

_ Bling!_

_ Of course it could have. Nothing there. Back further. Did it absolutely come from his head?_ Sherlock closed his eyes. He ran through it. Over. Again. Backwards. Forwards. Backwards.

_Slam!..._ He opened his eyes, frowning, then closed them again._ Mrs. Hudson. Come on, not now. _"Sherlock," she called, halfway up the stairs. Sherlock closed his eyes more tightly. _Focus._

"Sherlock!"

His brow creased before he consciously realized that there was something not quite right in her tone. His eyes were opening again just as she came trotting breathlessly into the sitting room. He unfolded his body and swung his legs over the edge of the couch.

"Mrs. Hudson. What is it? What has happened?"

"Oh, Sherlock, you _really_ ought to answer your phone when it rings, didn't you hear it?"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"He's been texting you for _ages, _when he couldn't get you to pick up, and finally he just gave up and called me_._"

"Who? Mrs. Hudson – "

_"John,_ Sherlock! Mary… Mary's been shot. Oh, my word, Sherlock, she's dead…"

He was up and halfway across the room to his coat before she even finished her sentence.

She kept talking, watching him as he strode across the flat. "…and the babies, Sherlock, John delivered them _himself…_"

Having snatched his coat, Sherlock stopped cold, faced her for a moment, then ran from the flat.

"John."

John looked up. "She's dead, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced around. Tiny isolettes lay next to each other in rows, as monitors beeped incessantly. John sat between a pair of little open cribs beneath warming lamps, his finger lying in the fist of a very small person. A pink tag that read "Watson, Baby Girl A" was taped to the lights atop the crib. A similar tag read "Watson, Baby Boy B" above the crib to John's other side. Sherlock turned his focus back to his friend, who appeared paler than he had ever seemed. "I'm sorry, John."

John turned back to the newborn in front of him; the infant was impossibly small, with diminutive IV lines and wires and oxygen tubing nearly covering its equally tiny body. "I… hmm." He clamped his jaw for a moment, then started again, his reddened eyes filling. "I don't know how much more I can take, really." He sniffed.

Sherlock moved away, returning a moment later with a blue plastic chair. He swung it around beside John and settled quietly, his eyes on him.

The monitors beeped.

Ventilators hissed.

Time crept by.

John wept.

A heavy, wet snow was falling. A week had passed. John sat between the babies' incubators, his hand lying on his son's back, his thumb slowly brushing the soft skin as he gazed through the plastic. The babies both lay beneath blue lights, now, treating the new jaundice that had developed. It was a bit surreal, life in this little ICU, babies stacked cheek-by-jowl like sardines, with cloth sunglasses velcroed around their heads to protect their eyes. He had begun to learn to tune out the monitors and alarms; it was a sort of white noise, now.

But he was exhausted. Thoroughly exhausted. Mary's funeral had taken place two days before, and while there were a number of possibilities regarding the shooting, there really were, as yet, no answers about what had taken place. Or, rather, _why_ it had taken place.

And then, of course, there were the babies. Babie-s. Two of them. _How the hell they missed that in this day and age,_ he thought again as he sat gazing at his son, _I truly shall never understand._

He had delivered the first, his daughter, in – as it turned out – less than a minute from the time he dialed Lestrade, whom he had on speed dial. After he realized that there was nowhere to put her, it took him another minute to get his coat off, wrap her in it and make certain she was breathing. It was then another couple of minutes after that before he got his son free; he had been certain that he would die, it had taken so long for him to lose the vivid blue tinge to his skin – never mind turn anything even closely resembling 'pink.' Long before then, of course, the first ambulance had arrived, and then two more had come, and he hadn't known what to do or where to go as teams of rescuers descended upon him.

Lestrade had followed shortly thereafter. "What in the _hell…_ Jesus, John, I'm sorry. But what _happened?_"

He had started to tell him, but the ambulances were leaving, pealing out with his family inside, and he had begged off and ridden in with, as it happened, his son, so he had seen the boy pink up. As the pall of death lifted from the baby, something unwrapped from John's heart; and he gasped, and started sobbing, dropping his face into his hands and fisting his fingers through his hair.

Lestrade had made the first call to Sherlock, because, frankly, it hadn't occurred to John until someone at the hospital had asked if there was someone they might call for him. He had pulled his phone, still sticky with blood, from his pocket, and tried… and tried… and tried… until he thought to phone Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had arrived within the half hour and been by his side ever since, except for a few occasions when he left to take calls from Lestrade, which he couldn't really carry out in the NICU. And, actually, he had been remarkably – not awful – through it all. John had sent him to go eat some time ago.

_ He'll be back any time, now,_ he thought.

And, sure enough, there was a buzz at the unit door and the clerk let him through. John glanced up a single time, and then returned his gaze to the baby before him as Sherlock sat.

"Johann Seb and Hannah Astia," Sherlock said, resuming his ceaseless narrative of potential – remarkably bizarre – baby names.

"No."

"Joseph and Anna. Come on, that's reasonable."

"And the middle names?"

"Sebastian and Rebecca."  
"No. Nothing weird, Sherlock."

"Le roschk and Roschkel."

_ "What?"_

"Anagrams."

"Oh, good God, Sherlock. No."

"Fine. John and Mary, then. Go as boring as you possibly can. Bore all of London. Bore all of Europe, for that matter, what difference does it make to me?"

"What difference _does_ it make to you? Why the hell do you care, anyway?"

"Well, if I'm to be raising them…"

"I beg your pardon – "

"You don't really think you're going to do this by yourself, do you?"

_ Well. No. But I don't see how you've got it worked out that you're going to do it, either._

"Oh, for God's sake, John, you're coming back to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson is already decorating your room."

He blinked. Then he slowly shook his head. "No. No, Sherlock, not again. I'm sorry. No."

"Look, John, I know I was a bit of an ass," Sherlock started.

"A bit? A _bit?_ Sherlock… I can't do this right now. I'm sorry. But I just can't."

"What? Do what? Come on, John, it'll be fun! You and I, together again, just like old times…"

"You did not just say that. Even you. Even you cannot possibly be so… well. Then again," he said, half to himself, "you can, can't you? Listen, Sherlock, I'm sorry, but can we just drop it for now, all right? It's too much. It's too… bloody much."

A minute or so passed. "I've a bit of news," Sherlock said.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"It was a sniper. Long range weapon. Professional. That should make you feel better."

"What in the _hell_ is there in that to make me _feel_ better? And how do you – oh, Molly, right, of course. Wait. You haven't been… you didn't see…"

"Mary's body? Oh, yes, of course. When it was there, of course I did, you didn't expect… ah. You did. Well, but John, now think. Wouldn't you _want_ me to look?"

John closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the sockets as he worked his jaw, but he soon was seeing Mary's body again, and he was soon staring once more into Sherlock's remarkably oblivious features."Yes. Yes, I suppose I would, but again, can we just… find something else to talk about?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and was silent for another minute. Then, "Pierre and Marie."

"No."

"Punch and Judy."

"Sherlock."

"Xavier and Zinnia."

"Did you bring my coffee?"

"Damn. Sorry, John." Sherlock was staring at him.

"No."

"Henry and Eleanor."

"Now, _that…_ No."

"Alex."

"For which?"

"Both."

"Did you want to hold them?" A woman's voice sounded above them.

"No. Oh, wait," John said shaking his head. "Yes. _Yes!_ Please."

A few minutes later, they sat side by side in wooden rockers, each holding a baby. John had his son, still attached to an oxygen wall unit, and Sherlock sat looking somewhat confused holding John's daughter. John couldn't help chuckling. Sherlock had tried to demur, but this was apparently taken as nervousness that would give way once he was pressed into service, because in very short order, he was gowned and gloved and plunked in a rocker.

"You did say that you wanted to raise them."

"That is _not_ what I said. I merely pointed out that _if_ I were going to raise them, I ought to have a say."

"Xavier and Zinnia, Sherlock?"

"Mrs. Hudson will be very disappointed if you don't return. She's got her heart set on being a grandmother."

"She's not my _mother!"_

"I don't think she realizes that. When are they getting out?"

"A few more days. They need to start eating better, and this one," John nodded down at the sleeping form in his arms, "needs to come off of oxygen."

"I bought baby bottles. And diapers."

"You did not."

"I did. Gave the money right to Mrs. Hudson, and now, we're well stocked."

John just shook his head and rocked his son.

Another four days passed. The NICU staff set John up with a room within the unit. He was to spend the night, and if he managed not to kill them, he could take them home. He was _meant_ to do it by himself, but Sherlock found a way in and said he would spend the night camped out in a fold-out chair.

"Look," Sherlock said, sinking into the vinyl cushions, "we have to get this settled."

"Get what… settled."

"Edward and Elizabeth."

"You _loathe_ the government – why… fine. Edward and… No. I'm sorry, no. Sherlock…" he sighed.

"John, you haven't anywhere else to go."

"That isn't precisely _true,_ Sherlock."

There was an extended, increasingly uncomfortable silence. "Well. All right. Fine. I'll move in with you," Sherlock said.

"God, no."

"Nike and…. Reebok."

"All _right, _you win!" John growled.

_"Really? Reebok? _John, you can't be serious."

"Honestly, you're insufferable. No; I'll move back to Baker Street."

"Oh. Yes, I know. Be quiet, you'll wake Reebok."

"Christ, Sherlock, I'm not naming them after _trainers._"

"Well, what, then. We only have…" he shook his watch down and stared at it, "nine hours and… seventeen minutes."

"Mycroft and Shirley."

Sherlock coughed.


	2. Chapter Two: Not Exactly New Clients

Chapter Two: Not Exactly New Clients

Sherlock turned. He checked his watch. _Thirty seconds. It takes me three minutes to make each bottle… but… Damn._ He sighed. There really was no getting around it – his schedule was off. He lifted the chair, stepping back silently and creeping into the kitchen. _If only they would eat for a predictable amount of time. But he ate for fourteen more minutes than she did last time, and took six more milliliters. And, so… does that mean I should make six fewer milliliters? _He sighed. A cry came from the sitting room. _Oh, no, now don't start… that's __her__; she has __no__ right to be crying, it's __his__ turn! _

He shook the bottle, a bit more frenetically than absolutely necessary. _Well. Now, what the hell do I do? Him? Her? _John lay upstairs, flat out, having put in several hours at the clinic earlier in the day. _I'm not waking him. They weigh less than my shoes. I can __do__ this. I shall __not__ wake him!_ Sherlock would rather pull his own teeth out with a fork than wake him and admit that he couldn't manage.

Finally, he walked to Oliver's crib and picked him up. "Drink," he said quietly. "I know, it's terrible," he continued, when the baby's face screwed up as the nipple touched his tongue, "but it's what you're stuck with, so no use complaining; there you go." The child had settled and started drinking with gusto, fists tight and eyes screwed shut. But he had no sooner begun drinking when the other one started.

"Oh, now, really. You've just got to wait. Sorry." He turned his back on her and walked away. She just got louder. He looked over his shoulder. "Here, stop that, you had your chance, and now you have to wait your turn. It's only twenty milliliters, won't take a mo – " he pulled the bottle from Oliver's mouth and started gesturing at Marie. Apparently, this was objectionable to Oliver who seemed to be recovering from his days on oxygen with remarkable vigor. Sherlock replaced the bottle. "Honestly." He walked to Marie and picked her up, crossing into the kitchen as he precariously held Oliver's bottle in place with his chin. _Well, now, genius, how do you plan to accomplish __this__?_

"Let me help you with that," John said quietly, "before you drop – "

Sherlock spun, and the bottle flew from his chin, sending formula flying everywhere as the top came off.

"– something. Or someone." John was grinning. "I _should_ be upset, really; but the entire sight… here, give her to me."

"I didn't want to wake you, John." He handed the baby over, and John swayed easily to the sink, where he began mixing two bottles. "I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, they're _babies – _I _expect_ to be awakened. Shh," he said quietly, rocking and handing a bottle to Sherlock.

"Why… are you _doing_ that?" he asked, waving his fingers at John, then glaring at Oliver as his cries reached fevered pitch. "Here," he said irritably, giving the baby the second bottle more gently than his tone might indicate, "you're scrawny enough as it is."

_"Babies,_ Sherlock. Haven't you ever… no, don't bother. Listen, they're used to…"

"Mary."

"…floating. Peacefully… floating. Like… like this." He wrapped his wrist up and grasped the bottle, then took his other hand and laid it on Sherlock's shoulder, swaying. Sherlock froze, eying him. Oliver stopped drinking, his eyes opening in consternation.

"Sway, Sherlock." Marie was drinking contentedly in John's arm as he moved. Sherlock began to rock stiffly. "Float, Sherlock. Like on a boat. You've been on boats – right? Boats?"

"I detest boats." But he started moving more easily, and Oliver settled. Sherlock grunted.

"See? It's not… logic, Sherlock. It's – babies."

Sherlock looked up sharply, but he kept rocking. "Of _course_ it's logic. _Everything's_ logic. Floating, rock, calm. I get it." He looked back down at Oliver and smiled a little. "Not logic," he whispered. "What does he know?" Oliver blinked and swallowed the last of the bottle, then closed his eyes.

John turned. Sherlock glanced up beneath his brows in time to see the smile on his face as he changed his daughter and laid her back down. "It's late, Sherlock," he said quietly. "You should get some sleep. They'll be up again in three hours."

"Mm," he grunted again, "that's what you said _last_ time, and look what happened."

"Babies, Sherlock. Not clients. Babies."

Sherlock shook his head, still looking at Oliver. "Like there's any difference," he said quietly. "You're still demanding and illogical. You just cost more." He glanced up to make certain John was gone – and kissed the sleeping infant, before lying him back down and turning out the lights.

He was almost asleep when he realized he'd forgotten to burp or change him. _Well,_ he thought, _let's see what difference it makes._

An hour and sixteen minutes, as it turned out.

Oliver started crying at two-thirty-two. _Why can't you be as quiet as your sister, _Sherlock thought as his foot thudded against the floor. _She wakes up within a three minute margin. Every. Single. Time. _He was just straightening when he knew John had gotten there first. _Damn_. He didn't know how he could tell – John could be bloody silent when it pleased him, but, sure enough, Oliver's cries soon settled into the hopeful little hiccups of the pre-fed neonate. _Well. To go wake Marie? Or let John... No, I can't let him do that. I'll set up everything for both, both bottles, both changes, just like an assembly line._ Sherlock stood and pulled on his bathrobe. He found John already feeding both infants, rocking them handily, looking quite calm.

"We should get better rockers," Sherlock said, somewhat jealously. "Can I help?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock, but if you'd like to take one to play with that would be fine," John said.

"To play with."

"To hold, and feed and smile at and such. That's why you are here, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"Well, I was here to administer their routine cares, if that's what you meant – but I wasn't here seeking entertainment, John, honestly. Come on, give him to me," he said tetchily, leaning over Oliver, whom John passed gently to Sherlock without another word. Sherlock received the baby and actually felt more at ease – which he really couldn't explain. It was true, nonetheless, and Oliver seemed to feel the same, for he also began to settle in Sherlock's arms. "Perfectly logical decision, wasn't it, Oliver? Oliver and Sherlock – two; John – zero. Marie remains undeclared in the baby logic war," he said quietly, settling into his chair.

"You're _rambling__,"_ John whispered, looking at his daughter. He glanced at her and up at Sherlock, frowning. He shook his head, staring back at Marie, who, by this time, was drifting again off to sleep. "No, you don't," he said, suddenly rising and startling both babies.

Oliver started screaming. "Really, John, was that absolutely necessary? I finally got him focused. This one must be yours; I think he's got difficulties following my plans for him." Sherlock rocked and hushed the baby.

"Well, give him to me then, and take Marie; she's no less mine, but perhaps she's less likely to irritate you just now."

"No! No. I want to... figure this out. It can't be that hard. Can... John, can I bring the cribs into my room with me?"

"Absolutely not."

"You need the sleep, and I can _do_ this."

"You will feed them formul-aldehyde."

"Oh, ha ha. Very witty. I assure you, I have placed all chemicals of a highly reactive or toxic nature out of reach."

"_Whose_ reach?"

There was a pause.

"Theirs." Sherlock appeared uncomfortable. "Well, all right, I'll move them off the first floor, would that make you feel more comfortable?"

"Yes; but they're not in with you, Sherlock. They're my children. I appreciate everything you're doing, but I need to be able to get to them both easily."

He smiled. "And you will be! I'm just right here, you can come and go as you like. Please – I... need to learn."

John shook his head, rocking. "Maybe, over time, Sherlock... But it is going to take time. I've been through hell and back, and I don't know that I want my children... I don't think I want that for them. They need parents they can count on. Sherlock, we're exhausted, the babies are asleep – let's just wait until morning, all right?"

"You have clinic tomorrow."

"Yes."

"John, go to sleep. I'll take care of them. It may not be pretty, I grant you – but it will get done."

John sighed. "All right. Change him and you can... Take him in with you, if you like. For the night. But that – is – all. Do you understand, Sherlock? That is all."

Sherlock waved John off. "Oh, yes," he whispered, "that is all. Except for some rocking... And some changing... Right, Oliver? I get it. Everything has a proper sequence. Feed – rock – change – rock – lullabye… And… just… like… that…. Goodnight, little one." He kissed Oliver's forehead and laid him down, unaware that John watched him seriously from the doorway. But when Sherlock turned to his own bed, John stood there still, a curious expression on his face. John quietly cleared his throat. "You're better... Ahm... You're better with them than I thought you'd be." He smiled quickly and turned, moving from Sherlock's room.

"John, wait."

He stopped, turning back. "It really is late."

Sherlock came to the door, whispering, "Don't want to wake them. I know it's late; but I just... I wanted to say... I'm glad. That you've come home, I mean. And I think it's what Mary... Well. I _hope_ it's what Mary would've wanted."

"Thanks, Sherlock. Me... Me, too." He smiled briefly and turned again, but Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder.

"No; wait. I want you to know, John – I'll always be here for you. For all of you. You're my family, now. And maybe I'm not legally their father, but... John... Are you crying? I'm trying to make you happy, John... I just wanted to say that as long as you're willing to stay with me... I'll look after them with you, John. Help raise them, provide for them, teach them, that sort of thing."

"Well, then, Sherlock, we might just as well get married."

Sherlock blinked, his brows pulled a bit down. After a moment, he said, "Yes. I know."

"Sherlock, these infants have made you utterly exhausted. Go to bed."

"No, John; I think, actually, the idea has merit."

John turned and began walking away. "Goodnight, Sherlock. See you at sunrise."

"Goodnight, dear."

John stopped. He turned. Sherlock was grinning. John stepped back to him, grim-faced. "Don't," he said, pointing, "do that."

"Do what? A man's allowed to call his... What?... Wife? Husband?... 'Dear,' isn't he?" Still grinning.

"It isn't _funny_, Sherlock."

There was a silence that extended uncomfortably. "No," he said, smile fading as he stared down into John's eyes, which appeared gray in this light, "no, it isn't. And like much humor... Perhaps, in a way... it wasn't meant to be." John stared up at him. _Stop gazing at me like that, as if I know what to do – I might destroy everything in one ignorant action. No, Dr. Watson: I'm afraid the lead now is yours._

John blinked, turned away, turned back, and then finally said quietly, "Get some sleep, Sherlock. We have… a long road ahead." And he turned for the door.

_ Ah. Yes_. Sherlock smiled briefly, sadly. "Of course. I'm just... Glad you're home. And... I want you to know. That I'd do it. For you. And for them too, of course."

"Of course," John replied hoarsely, but he did not turn, and Sherlock soon heard his tread on the stair. Dropping his head, he turned, and went back to his bed.


	3. Chapter Three: That's Some Baby

Chapter Three: That's Some Baby

John stared at the plastic mold on his desk. It had been given him by a pharmaceutical representative promoting antacid medication and showed the effects of acid reflux and peptic ulcer disease. He ran his thumb over the ridges of a particularly gruesome ulcer. _That's what's brewing,_ he thought. _I should've stolen some samples._ He set the thing down irritably, grimacing and trying to block out thoughts of his last patient, Mrs. Black-Brown. _Ridiculous,_ he thought again. _Either change your name or don't, but don't hyphenate it. Stupid woman._ Something occurred to him and he snorted and laughed out loud, finally rising and beginning to gather his things for his journey home. _At least she didn't shorten them – she could've ended up Mrs. Blown._ Which did it entirely for him. Because Mrs. Blown had been in the last trimester of pregnancy, and all he kept doing was running the ultrasound probe over her belly again and again as Mr. Blown had stood anxiously by, wondering what was taking so long, when all John was doing was thinking of Mary and the fact that they had missed twins, and that Mary, for whatever Godawful reason… was gone. And then, suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore. He picked up his coat and left.

Sherlock had been essentially alone with the babies for almost a month without killing – or even nearly killing – them, at least that he was aware of. John was certain that Mrs. Hudson had a huge hand in that and hovered nearly constantly over them; but, still – really, he was shocked. He had been certain that he would stay at Baker Street for a few days, no more, until he had gotten a bit of sleep – and then would hire a nanny and move back to his flat. But habits had begun to form, and… it had been okay. More than okay. Startling. Sherlock had deferred client after client, only taking on the 'boring' ones whom he could solve without moving from his laptop, thus ensuring a steady flow of income with nary a neuron fired. John probably didn't even need to return to work, truly; except that he did. He had to be doing something, and he couldn't quite be with Sherlock all the time… yet. Still, he had been much better with Marie and Oliver than John had expected. He'd learned quickly what to do and when; could discern their cries; and he didn't lose patience nearly as easily as John feared. So – John had stayed.

_But there's another reason, isn't there, John?_ he thought as he left the clinic. _No,_ came the immediate stubborn reply, _no, there isn't._

And so, with this inner dialogue, he made his way home.

To chaos.

He turned onto Baker Street and saw no fewer than three police cars, two ambulances, and a fire truck. There was, thankfully, no smoke; but when he ran up the street, one of the ambulances pulled out, lights and sirens on. He tore up his stairs and found Sherlock calmly swaying Oliver and Marie before the windows, Bach playing, Lestrade and his cronies poking about, and Mycroft settled into _his_ chair.

"Sherlock, what the _hell?"_

"Oh, hello, John. Care for tea? It's in the kitchen," Sherlock said, nodding at the table.

_"What?_ No… _What?_ Sherlock…"

"Tea, John. He's offering… you… tea. Please." Mycroft sat idly twirling his umbrella as John panted.

"Would someone _please_ tell me what the _hell_ has been going on, and _no, _I don't want any _bloody_ tea!"

Lestrade looked up from his notepad. "I prefer coffee, myself," he said. Then, catching the tilt of John's head and his incredulous expression, "I'm just saying. Right. Well, that'll be all then. Come talk to me tomorrow, John. After – erm – you've had some tea. Right. Well, I'll leave you to it. Come on, Donovan."

Donovan rolled her eyes and followed Lestrade from the apartment. John strode to the windows and watched them leave; the emergency vehicles were all leaving. He only now was noticing Mycroft's black limo. "Right. _Now_ would someone…"

"Tea, John," Mycroft said.

"Oh, for _God's_…" he stormed into the kitchen and, slamming around, managed to pour his tea and came back and sat down. Mycroft looked meaningfully at the cup. He sipped. Mycroft and Sherlock waited. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, noticing for the first time that both babies were peaceful; Marie was studying Sherlock's face intently. John looked around. "Where's…" he spun. "Where's Mrs. Hudson?"

Mycroft pursed his lips and stared at the floor.

"She'll be fine," Sherlock said. "Hypertensive crisis. Some short-acting vasodilators and medication changes should get her home by tomorrow."

"Sherlock," John growled, yet he strangely didn't have the heart for it. He sighed. "What…"

"Feeling better?" Mycroft asked.

John tilted his head, sipping his tea.

"Yes, a bit, actually; thank you."

Mycroft smiled tightly and nodded. "My pleasure. Well, John. It seems we've made some – progress – on your case." There was a pause. "Haven't we, Sherlock," he asked pointedly.

Sherlock was rocking the babies by the window and now turned rather abruptly. "What?" Oliver yelped. "Enough of that, you," Sherlock said quietly; and surprisingly, Oliver stopped just as abruptly. Mycroft crossed his legs. "Sherlock."

"Ah, yes. Progress. Well, John, it seems..." He cleared his throat. "Yes. Mary. CIA. She had been working on infiltrating a cult, and about two years ago – "

"Two _years_ ago?" John asked.

"Yes. Sometime about two years ago, she became successful. They wished to indoctrinate her."

"So they discovered that she wasn't really a member."

"Yessss." Sherlock gestured with Oliver, pointing at John, "Yes, they did."

"And killed her."

"Yes! Well, that about sums that up, wouldn't you..."

"Sherlock."

John looked slowly to Sherlock's brother, who bore a small smile and stared still at his shoes. "What – am I missing?"

Mycroft raised his eyes to Sherlock who stood quietly swaying and staring at nothing. John worked his jaw from side to side, waiting. Mycroft sighed. "Inertia's a closed cult, John. Very superstitious. They believe that all children – whether the parents abandon the cult or not – belong within the cult."

"So... Hmm..." John's grip closed around the cup. "You're saying that Mary... my Mary... they killed my Mary for our babies...? Is that... That's what you're telling me." He set the cup down – or meant to, but it missed and crashed to the ground, spilling tea everywhere and shattering the porcelain. _"DAMN!"_ he shouted.

Sherlock started for the kitchen, both babes still in his arms. "No, Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted, "I insist." He rose and went to the kitchen.

"I don't _want_ any damn tea!" John shouted, and that did it for the usually calm Marie who started to fret. "Give her to me, Sherlock."

"No."

"Sherlock. Give. Me. My. Daughter."

Marie started to yell.

"No. Not... yet."

"Here you go, John. Drink up," Mycroft said cheerily, pressing another warm cup into his hands and sitting back down. Almost without thinking, John took several deep swigs. "Too much blasted sugar," he complained quietly.

"Oh, I _am_ sorry. Where were we? Yes. Cult," Mycroft said, still smiling.

John frowned at his cup. He slowly looked up at Mycroft and blinked. And then at Sherlock, who turned to Mycroft.

"Overdid it. Idiot," Sherlock said.

"Well, clearly you under-calculated, and I judged – correctly, I believe – that a second ambulance would soon have been called for." Mycroft pulled out his pocket watch. "Call me when he wakes, will you? I'd like to make certain you tell him _everything,_ Sherlock – and, frankly, I'd just as soon be here when you do. Need the entertainment. I left my calculations on your counter, should you need them." He rose. "Good evening, brother mine. John. Don't be too upset with me – although I highly doubt you'll remember that I had anything to do with this at all." And so saying, he left.

John blinked again. "Sherlock?" _I feel... Wow. _He stood, swayed, and sat again. Sherlock stared at him. He tried to stand again, but rolled off the couch with a thud instead. "Ow..." He put his hand to his head and stared at it. "Hey. Sherlock. I'm bleeding, look."

Sherlock walked over. "Yep, you are," he said, bending as he put Oliver down. "Rather impressively, too. Come on, soldier. Let me see... Tea cup shrapnel..." He walked into the kitchen and brought back some ice.

"Ow... That hurts, you know."

"Mm. Stop moving. Damn it, Mycroft... Here, John, give me that."

"What? You don't mean the slipcover? You can't put furniture coverings on blood, Sherlock, that's appalling."

"Shut up and give it to me."

"Alllll right." He whipped the sofa's nearest slipcover from the arm and tossed it up into the air, snickering.

"Mm. Thank you, that's perfect." Sherlock went to retrieve it, and wrapped the ice in it. "Well, you're knackered, so might's well get it over with. Where's the camcorder?"

"How the hell should I know, Mr. Smarty-pants-world's-only-consulting-detective? It's over there on your desk."

Sherlock turned it on and started recording.

_ Hm. Interesting_,John thought._ Look at that little flashing light. Blink. Blink. Blink._

"All right, John. Whole story. You won't remember tomorrow, so this is cheating a bit, but I know you better than Mycroft does, and I really do worry about what this would do to you doing it his way, so. Ahm."

John smiled and leaned back into the bottom of the sofa, trapping his makeshift icepack in place with his head.

"Right then. Just going to say it all very quickly, and John, I need you to just wait until I get all the way through. Do try to remember… we are _friends, _John. And I… well. Ahm. Inertia. Inertia is a cult based upon the idea that only the most intelligent deserve to survive – an idea I at least… never mind. They go through lists of high intelligence people, recruiting... and breeding. And have, in their own way, formed something of a religion. Mary came to me before I came back... I should say, this was a rather impressive feat… not an easy thing to do at the time..." he glanced at John, who smiled blithely back at him. "Anyway, I helped her infiltrate the cult." He sighed. "And then it gets a little trickier. She fell in love with you, and they got suspicious…"

_Wait. Mary… and Sherlock? My Mary?_

"When she became pregnant... Don't look at me like that, John. We were never _really… _She loved you very much, and needed to prove herself, so in the end, they implanted four embryos, two of yours and two of mine, so that she wouldn't know who was the father and could still safely go under cover."

"You... Before she met me? She was going to have your baby before she even _met_ me?"

"No! Don't be absurd, that makes no sense."

"_That_ makes no sense?" He began struggling to his feet.

Sherlock moved to the couch. "Stay down, John, you'll never get up. She never thought it would get that far, but then you asked her to marry you, Inertia was becoming wary, and she felt she had to do something. And then they threatened your life, of course, because they said she'd promised them – "

"They _what?"_

"John, really, you didn't think that Magnusson was only interested – oh, you did. I see. Well, this _is_ awkward."

"This is awkward. _This _is awkward."

"Why do you keep repeating everything I say? Honestly, John. In any case, quickly because you have perhaps six to eight minutes left, she did not meet Inertia's timetable, and we were trying to work it out – "

"Without me."

"Yes. Because, John, you would not have taken it well, and – "

"Oh, yes, I certainly haven't shown myself trustworthy."

"John, sarcasm is hardly called for."

_Wait. Wait a minute. Wait – just – a minute._ "What happened today?"

"Ah. Yes. Well. Now, John…" Sherlock shook his watch rattling down around his wrist. He cleared his throat again. "Aren't you tired?"

_I am, actually. Yes. But… _"No, now, wait, Sherlock…" John yawned. "I want to know…" he blinked and shook his head.

"Come on, John; you can have my room tonight." Sherlock turned the camera off and returned to the sofa. He extended his hand to John, who scowled, but reached, and stood – dropping the ice pack unnoticed to the ground.

"You… drugged me."

"Mycroft's idea." Sherlock walked him past Oliver and Marie, lying like little spring rolls in their cribs. "Versed. And frankly, I think, all things considered, it wasn't as horrific as I initially believed. All right, Doctor Watson, nighty…"

John collapsed.

"…night."


	4. Chapter Four: About Last Night

Chapter Four: About Last Night

_Well,_ Sherlock thought, _that went well. _He collapsed on the sofa, only then noticing the blood trail leading to his bedroom door. _Hm. First time there's actually been a trail to __my__ door… wait. Is… that… acutally… true?_ He considered for a moment, then decided it was irrelevant. _But what __isn't__, is the near-inevitable eventuality of him falling out of that bed and making that head wound worse, and I really don't fancy a trip to St. Bart's on top of everything else._ He swung his legs wearily over the sofa cushions, momentarily smirking._ Wisdom, Sherlock, at last? Is it truly possible that you finally are learning to prevent rather than repair? Unlikely, that._ He opened his bedroom door quietly and wrapped his hands around Oliver's crib rungs, pushing the infant flush alongside the bed. Oliver opened his eyes briefly and glowered at him. He returned the favor, and Oliver drifted quickly back to sleep. "Give us a long rest, would you?" he whispered, stroking the baby's fingers before turning to fetch some spare pillows and blankets, changing quickly, and dropping down like a log next to the crib.

Oliver – and Marie – took him at rather better than his request; so much so that when he first became aware that something was amiss – namely that he was lying on his own wooden floor and a very long time had passed – he was very afraid that both children had died overnight, and he popped up rather abruptly over the rail, ruining the slumber immediately for all involved and scaring John witless into the bargain.

"Christ, Sherlock, what in the _hell_ are you doing?" John shouted, quite literally leaping from the bed – or he would have done, had not the crib and a recent head injury and overdose held him back. "Oh my God," he said, falling heavily against the crib and landing back heavily onto one elbow. "I feel… dreadful. What… God."

And Oliver started to cry._ Always, unless I feed him first. So I suppose that's breakfast, then,_ Sherlock thought, rolling the crib back across the room and picking up the hungry infant, who quieted. He cast a look back to ensure that John wasn't going anywhere – _Mental note: new pillow and case _– and stepped out into the kitchen. "Eggs, you say? Sausage? Bit of chipped beef? So sorry, how about… formula? Thought you'd say that, but I'm afraid I'm stuck." He gave the bottle to the baby and walked over to check on Marie, who lay there, neat as you please, smelly as a parking-lot stairwell, blinking up at him seriously. "Well. Were you planning on saying something? Or did you suppose you might wait until you learned to ask politely?" He scooped her up. "Not that I don't appreciate the extra sleep, mind you," he said conversationally, locking Oliver into his swing, "it's the fear of your untimely demise to which I object."

He fixed a bottle, gave it to her, and she batted her fists at it. "None of that. Dance? Love to." He started swinging around to the rhythmic clicks of Oliver's swings and started humming. Marie stopped sucking and looked confused. "Dancing, Marie. Never mind. Ask your brother." He heard a chuckle and turned. John leaned against the doorframe grinning. Sherlock handed him the baby and cleared his throat. "You were supposed to be lying down."

"Yes. Erm… about that. The blood? What happened?"

Sherlock retrieved Oliver. "Never mind, Oliver, it wasn't personal, she needed breakfast as well."

"Sherlock."

"Hm?" he looked up. "Sorry, John – he wants changing; won't be a moment."

"Sherlock."

"Oh! You…" he wiggled his fingers around the back of his head. "…cut your head. Teacup. Nothing serious. Give me a moment." He left, ignoring John's furrowed brow and tilted head. "Alka-Seltzer?" he called from his bedroom.

"What?" John called back.

"Do. You. Need. Alka-Seltzer." He poked his head into the hall.

"Ah – yeah. Yeah, sure. Sherlock, where's Mrs. Hudson?"

"She'll be fine. Listen, do you want to go take the twins to the park?"

"To the _park?"_

"I'm given to understand that people sometimes do such things," Sherlock said, bringing out the medicine and setting it before John, who had moved into the living room and was standing staring at the bloody sofa. Sherlock steered him into his chair, swiftly picking up the camcorder, snapping it shut, and dropping it into his bathrobe pocket. John was still staring at the sofa and the shards of teacup on the floor. "John."

"Hm?" John said, refocusing on him.

"Do you want to go to the park?"

And then, a miracle happened.

Oliver smiled.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped.

Oliver smiled wider.

"What?" John asked.

"Oliver agrees." Sherlock turned the baby – who immediately stopped smiling.

"What're you on about?"

"He smiled!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, it's far too early. He was a month premature and babies rarely smile this early in any case."

"I _tell_ you, he _smiled!"_

John rolled his eyes and stood. "Look, Sherlock, if you want to go for a walk, we can go for a bloody walk, only I don't know what's got into you all of a sudden." He walked from the room, muttering, laid Marie in her crib, and walked to the stairs.

Sherlock jerked his head. "Wait, John, don't – "

_Thud._

" – do the stairs. Hang on, let me help you." Oliver smiled at him. "Stop that," Sherlock grouched irritably. Oliver positively grinned.

Thirty minutes later, they were out walking in the park, John pushing the side-along stroller, Sherlock not entirely certain to what extent John was using it for support, but unwilling to broach the subject purely out of cowardice. "Lovely day," John said.

"Is it," Sherlock said tetchily. _Boring. Not lovely; boring. How do ordinary people __do__ this, day in, day out – oh, __God__, is this what I'm in for?_

John eyed him.

"P'raps we ought to buy a balloon?" Sherlock said as they passed a balloon-seller. "P'raps some candy apples?" he continued, well aware that he was being obnoxious, but not caring in the slightest – he'd held it in just about as long as any _reasonable_ person could be expected to, and now _this…_

"Something wrong, Sherlock?"

"P'raps a turn about the carousel?"

"P'raps some nice puppies for you to kick."

Sherlock glared at John.

"It _was_ your idea, Sherlock."

"Mm, don't… remind… me wait here." And with that, he took off, running like a fiend, John calling, "Sherlock? Sherlock! _Sherlock!" _behind him.

**

_What in the bloody hell was __that__ about?_ John thought, watching Sherlock's coat go flapping behind him. _And more to the point, how is it fair that he gets to go do whatever it is, and I have to stand here doing bloody nanny duties, when, after all, they are apparently __our__ children! Wait. What?_ He squinted and pursed his lips, then shaded his eyes, trying to see where Sherlock had gone.

"Lovely day for a stroll," came the always-slightly-sardonic-but-still-distinguished voice of Mycroft from behind him.

"Mycroft. I'm surprised to see you – don't you burn to ash in direct sunlight?"

"I'm surprised to see _you,_ Doctor Watson. How's the head?"

"Fine… Mycroft… what do you know about it?"

"Oh, nothing! Nothing, of course." He smiled and peered down at the stroller. "How are little Olivia and Marius?"

"Oliver and Marie."

"Whatever."

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Where is Sherlock?"

"Please. Either running off after someone you set to lure him, or someone else, but in either case, the question is an insult. It would've been an insult a month after I knew you, frankly. Now, it's… what do you _want?"_

"Can't I simply walk in the park with a friend?"

"A, you don't have friends; and b, no. Now tell me what you want, or I shall simply stop talking entirely until you do."

"Testy, Doctor Watson. One would almost believe you were feeling poorly this morning. Either that or had reason to be somewhat… distrustful? Oh, look; here comes my brother. Do tell him I stopped by, won't you? Good morning."

"Always a pleasure, Mycroft."

Sherlock came panting up and stared with growing malice at Mycroft's withdrawing form in the distance.

"What… was that about?" John asked, glancing between the two.

"Ah – nothing. Thought I saw an old client. Mistaken," he panted. "Shall we go home? You look a bit peaky. Did he say what he wanted?"

"No, he was his usual mysterious self."

"Ah. Good. I mean – well, what else can you expect? Come on. On the way, we can stop for breakfast."

**

Sherlock tossed and turned. John had insisted that he take a lie-down, not listening when he had stated repeatedly – lied repeatedly, really – that he wasn't tired, and he'd finally capitulated and gone to bed just to put the matter to rest. So to speak. He stayed in his room thinking for an hour, and then went out into the living room, where he found a very pale – and very angry – John sitting with camcorder in hand.

"John…"

"I thought I heard Mrs. Hudson come home a while ago. I couldn't find her spare keys, and I didn't want to wake you, so I went looking. Funny place to keep a camcorder, Sherlock, in one's bathrobe. Unless one means to hide it. When… were you planning to tell me this? And why is it on film? And what _possible_ excuse do you… hmm…" he closed his eyes, lowered his voice, and tried again. "What possible excuse do you have for drugging me and then _recording it?"_

It was a very long afternoon.


	5. Chapter Five: The Hardest Word

Chapter Five: The Hardest Word

Sherlock fiddled with the stub, passing it over and under his fingers again and again as he waited for the kettle to boil. He glanced again quickly into the sitting room, where John still sat glaring at him, holding both sleeping babies in his arms. He sighed and turned back to the kettle, staring at it intently. _Are those… bubbles? Maybe? Tiny ones? Yes?_ He sighed again. _Now would be a __great__ time to carry out some distillation, perhaps; or dating of local soil samples. If I hadn't moved everything to the bloody basement._ He bent again. _Bubbles? Nope._ He peeked into the sitting room – and inadvertently met John's glare of imminent death.

"Look, John…" he tried.

John pulled his eyebrows down into his nose.

"All right. Perhaps I… ought to have mentioned it."

John's exploded snort startled Oliver. Sherlock stepped over and extended his arms. John's face tightened. Oliver stared to cry. Marie stared and waved her fists. "Please, John." John slowly extended Oliver to him, and Sherlock began to rock in the pattern he had determined worked best for Oliver – a variation of a waltz that added an extra step every third repeat. Oliver blinked, sighed, and began to settle.

"I hate that you can do that, you know," John said.

"Would you like him back?" Sherlock asked, stopping. Oliver held his breath.

"No – no, Sherlock, that's not the point. He's probably your son anyway. Frankly, they're probably both yours. Take her as well. Take them both. In fact, why don't I just leave? Why am I here at all, Sherlock? What _possible_ use am I? I was never _necessary_ to this little… plot you – "

"John…"

"No, Sherlock, really." He leaned on one elbow, tapping a finger on his lips. "Why did you two even bother with me? In fact, Sherlock, why the _hell_ did you even come back at – "

"John!"

Oliver began to cry.

"Oliver, stop," Sherlock said. Oliver frowned. "Oliverrrr…." Sherlock said, tilting his head. Oliver sighed and closed his eyes.

"Unsoddingbelievable, you are. Here." John stood, extending Marie, who began to cry. "Take her. I'm leaving."

"No! Wait." Sherlock clasped his shoulder. "John, please. I'm…" his eyes narrowed and he glanced away. But then he looked back into John's expectant face. "I'm sorry."

John looked up at him beneath his brows and then sideways at his shoulder – and Sherlock realized his thumb was moving, though he hadn't realized it. He stilled it. "I'm sorry, John. I mean it. I – we didn't know you were going to fall in love, and…"

"…and it never occurred to you to talk to me about any of this. Either of you."

"Well, of _course_ it occurred… ahm. But I see that we were wrong. And I'm sorry, John, really. They _are_ your children; they were never meant to be mine, in any sense." His hand still rested on John's shoulder, and he extended his fingers somewhat awkwardly and removed his hand. He glanced down at Oliver and handed him to John. Oliver started to fuss. John shook his head, but took his son and started walking away.

"Do you want me…" Sherlock licked his lips. "Never mind. I'll go… make their bottles." He walked into the kitchen, where the kettle finally was boiling. He poured the tea, made the bottles, and rummaged around until he found some biscuits that Mrs. Hudson had purchased some time before. He set it all together on a tray and carried it into the sitting room. "I… ah…" Placing the entire tray near John, he went and settled opposite him and pulled the ticket stub back from his pocket. He started tapping his foot.

"Spill it, Sherlock."

"I need to go to Cambridge."

"What?"

"Cambridge. The guy today? In the park? He had been circling us for a couple of blocks. I caught him… but there was a crowd starting to form, and I think if I hadn't let him go… well, in any case, he had a train ticket that tore. From Cambridge."

John was staring at him, awkwardly holding and feeding both infants. Sherlock stared back. _No. No, I won't take over._

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded from the stairwell. He turned as her face appeared in the doorway.

He rose. "Mrs. Hudson… how are you feeling?"

"Fine, dear. Bit of a headache. I just wanted to make sure… they never did get them?"

He smiled. "No, Mrs. Hudson. Everyone's safe."

"Oh, that's good; I was so worried…"

"Get… get them?" John asked.

_Ah. Damn._ He studied his shoes. "Yes. Well, as I was saying, I thought perhaps you might like to go to Cambridge?"

"Sherlock, I swear to God…" John growled.

Mrs. Hudson glanced nervously between them. "Well, I'll just head back down, then; I just wanted to be sure… yes." She smiled, then saw the tea tray. "Oh, boys, you aren't eating _those?_ Heavens, Sherlock, I bought those _months_ ago, they'll make you dreadfully ill…" she stepped to the tray and removed the offending biscuits. "I'll bring up something nicer, shall I?"

"Don't bother," John and Sherlock said in unison.

"Another time, then," she said, wringing her hands. "All right, then, boys. Well. Have a good night." She turned for the door.

"Oh…" Sherlock glanced back. "Mrs. Hudson, we'll be gone for a few days."

She perked up. "Going someplace nice?"

"Just Cambridge."

"Oh, I know _just_ the place – shall I call for you?"

Sherlock met John's glance and rolled his eyes. "That would be lovely. Thank you."

She toddled off and Sherlock dropped into his chair. "Mrs. Hudson was taking the twins out for a walk yesterday, and someone knocked her over and tried to make off with the stroller. She locked the wheels."

John blinked. About a minute passed.

_Three._

_ Two._

_ One…_

"When. In the _hell._ Were you planning to tell me?"

_Wow, _Sherlock thought, nodding._ He must either be exceptionally tired, or – _

"Can you give me one reason – _one reason, Sherlock – _why I shouldn't _murder you right now!?"_

_ – or else he isn't done yet. Or both._ He took a deep breath. "Yes." He closed an eye and glanced at the ceiling. "Mm – "

"STOP COUNTING, it was a rhetorical question!"

He jumped, startled. "Ah. Right. Well. At least eight, then. But honestly, it seemed like rather a lot to tell you all at once, and truthfully, John, I _was_ going to tell you everything, but things keep _happening."_

John closed his eyes. "Sherlock. Do me a favor, all right? Just… tell me everything, all right?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Do you want more Versed?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

It was a long night.

**

The next day, they were on their way to Cambridge, with little more than a ticket stub, John's irritability, and Sherlock's brain to guide them. After much thought and cajoling all around, Oliver and Marie had been left in Mycroft's 'highly capable' care.

"What are their names?" Mycroft asked.

"Oliver and Marie," Sherlock had said, rolling his eyes.

Mycroft smiled condescendingly. "Their _full_ names."

Sherlock had glanced at John, who had shrugged.

"Oliver Mycroft and Marie Johanna," Sherlock said after a long pause. "Watson."

Mycroft blinked.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Well," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath, "do try not to kill them, Mycroft – please remember that we're leaving them with you not out of any sense of filial affection, but due to your security level." He extended Marie to Mycroft, who took a step backwards.

John looked skyward, muttering under his breath, "this is not going to work."

Mycroft called over his shoulder, "Marcus…"

A gargantuan gentleman appeared in attire that did not inspire confidence in his childcare skills.

"Actually, Mycroft, on second… or perhaps fifty-second… thought," John said, "I think we've got it." He took Marie from Sherlock and started buckling her back into the stroller.

"John," Mycroft said, laying his hands onto the stroller handle and then recoiling and making a face as he examined one of his palms. He thumbed the base of his palm, trying to scrub off some invisible debris. "I agreed to supervise the…" he eyed the stroller, "children, and I shall do so. Besides… undoubtedly, they could benefit from some time in appropriate society." Turning back to the mountain behind him, he repeated, "Marcus?"

Marcus stepped forward and grasped the stroller and everyone eyed one another uneasily. But in the end, Sherlock and John left the infants in Mycroft's care and made their way to Victoria station.

"I tell you, it will pay off," Sherlock said, staring out the window. "One day."

"It had better," John replied. "I'd hate to think I stuck my son with a name like 'Mycroft' for nothing."

An hour and a half later, they were disembarking in Cambridge.

"What's it called again?"

"Viscount Manor," Sherlock replied, hailing a cab. They drove through the city, crossing over the Cam several times before Sherlock banged on the safety separator between them and the driver. "Oi! _Direct,_ please, or did you not want a tip?" And then they were there several seconds later. Sherlock counted out the bills, scowling, and thrust them wordlessly at the cabbie.

They checked into Viscount Manor – _Lavender stone? Really? – _and the hotel manager escorted them up, chattering the entire time about Newton's papers this and meal service times that. He thrust a skeleton key into the lock and turned it, preceding them into the room with their bags and pressing the key into Sherlock's hand. "There you go; I'll see you gentlemen at supper, promptly at seven." He winked. "But I won't be disappointed if you don't show." He turned and disappeared down the staircase, Sherlock frowning as he disappeared. He glanced up. "John?"

For John had stopped dead in the doorway, and Sherlock could see no further.

"I – don't know about this, Sherlock."

"Why? What's – " he tried to glance around him, but all he could make out were the gabled windows that let in the afternoon light. "John, not to be indelicate, but I have to… use… oh, God." He stepped slowly into the room, which had a single double bed, cast over with red rose petals. A pair of towels had been twisted into swans and set near the pillows, their necks intertwined into a heart. He turned around. A dressing table held a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice, and there was a vase with long-stem roses set in one of the gabled window-seats. "Oh… my… God."

"Did Mrs. Hudson tell you…" John started.

"No! No, of course not," he said quietly. _Just vacuumed, likely for our arrival; missed dust-lines; ancient slim-line telephone…_ "But I really do need…" he turned to the bathroom, which contained a large, square Jacuzzi-style tub and separate shower. Candles had been set along the edge. Lavender candles. He sighed.

"Let me go talk…" John started.

He glanced at him. "What? No. Don't bother, they're full. This is their last room. And there's a convention in town, so unless you feel like wandering around looking for another room…" he walked into the bathroom and closed the door. "Might as well just come in and close the door, John."

"What?"

"To the room."

"Wha – oh. Right. Of course, yeah. Do you think we should call?"

He emerged from the bathroom, knowing immediately what John meant, because he'd been thinking the same thing the entire train ride. John searched his face. He considered. "Balance of probability is that they're anxious but physically unharmed."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. So…"

"Right." He dialed. Four minutes later, the phone call was over, and he had learned nothing that he hadn't already suspected. He went to look out the window.

"So," John said, rubbing his hands together. "What first?"

"I've been giving that considerable thought," Sherlock replied quietly.

"Yeah? And?"

"Hm?" he replied, still staring out the window.

John tilted his head. "What remarkable conclusion have you come to?"

"Well," Sherlock said, "I thought we might spend an evening in."

"What?" John asked, walking closer.

Sherlock looked up, smiling. "In. Do you like champagne? I don't enjoy it much, myself, but it's better than nothing."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock nodded out the window. "I'm a bit tired, John, and I'd much rather observe him from in here tonight… and chase him down tomorrow, when _he's_ tired, and we've had a decent night's sleep." He smiled. John peered outside. "Careful," Sherlock said quietly, "don't let him see you – the sun's at just the right angle…" Opposite the hotel stood a young man in his mid-to-late twenties, clean-shaven and well-dressed, leaning against a light post. "Odd place to lean, don't you think?" Sherlock asked. "Nothing behind him, or near on either side…"

"Waiting for a cab?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Several have already passed. Besides…" he pulled the ticket stub from his pocket and smiled. "We've met."

John looked at him. "How do you know he won't leave?"

"Call it a hunch."

John shifted his weight and folded his arms.

"Follow us to London and here and then just walk away?" Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think so. No, he'll be there in the morning – much the worse for wear – and we shall have an evening on Mrs. Hudson's bill and a good breakfast between then and now." He glanced up at John. "Sound good?"

John hesitated, but ultimately nodded.

Sherlock smiled. "Now," he said, "bring me that champagne."


	6. Chapter Six: I Am

Chapter Six: I Am

_ What am I doing here? _John thought, staring up at the ceiling._ I can't cope with much more, I really can't._ _I wonder how they are. I hope Mycroft hasn't killed them. I wonder if he's so much as looked at them, never mind picked them up. _He glanced again at Sherlock, who still sat staring out the dormer-window. Their pampered stalker hadn't budged in two hours – and neither had Sherlock, who still sat twirling his full champagne flute. _I wish he'd told me. We could've… I don't know. I would've shared it with him. If he would've let me. Maybe… Maybe that's why he didn't. Well. No choice, now. Marie, my little serious sweetheart… Oliver the grouch… _His eyes crept back to Sherlock. The memory of Sherlock reading about recent advances in arson forensics to the strangely intent little boy snuck into his mind and he smiled briefly. _Yours, Sherlock? Mine? Does it make a difference, really? They're ours._

The towel swans sat side by side on the floor; John hadn't had the heart to disassemble them, but he had wanted to lie down, so he had set them down. He closed his eyes. _Ours. Oh, Mary. _And then he felt himself, once again, descending into the black maw that had been threatening to swallow him for months. He wasn't sure if it had grown since the twins' birth, because it had been so enormous to begin with, but it certainly wasn't much _better._ He sighed and opened his eyes – and Sherlock was staring at him, frowning. "What?" John asked.

"I _am_ sorry, John," Sherlock said again. Once he had said it on Baker Street, it seemed that he thought perhaps the words might work some sort of magic, because he had repeated it at regular intervals.

John closed his eyes and sighed again. "I forgive you, Sherlock," he said quietly.

Sherlock rose and came over to the bed. He stood over him. "Really?"

John opened his eyes. "Yes. Really. But that doesn't make everything suddenly _better._"

A crease appeared between Sherlock's eyes. "No?"

He sat up. "No, Sherlock, of course not. Look…" he leaned forward, resting his forehead on his palm. "It just… isn't that simple."

Sherlock walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down. He kicked his shoes off. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"I know."

"I'll… I'll get him, John."

John considered Sherlock. He shook his head and stared back at the ceiling. "That… I know. I _know_ you will. It's odd, but I know you will. But it isn't _that,_ Sherlock. It's… This whole thing. It's you being dead all over again."

"Oh." A pause. "I'm sorry for that, too."

John chuckled once. He turned back to Sherlock and sighed. Then he sat up. "You know something? I forgive you. I really do, Sherlock. I really, really do. Because you don't get it. You didn't get it when you did it the first time, and you didn't get it after this, so… I can't be pissed off that you still don't. You just… you're you. You simply don't understand, because that's who you are, and I can't suddenly decide now to change my feelings about you, even if I could. It's just… you. It's all the you that I find annoying, and all the you that I love, so I can't hold it against you, because I accepted you for who you were ages ago. I just…" he sighed. "I just wish you'd told me, that's all."

Sherlock blinked. He was studying John intently. "You do?"

"Of course I do."

"You… really do?"

John frowned. He pushed himself up on one elbow. "I do… what?"

Sherlock's chin lifted suddenly. "Ah." His eyes searched John's and he stood. He went and sat in the dormer again, staring out. "He hasn't moved. I wonder how much they paid him."

"Sherlock?" John rose, combing through his words as he walked to the dormer. And then it hit him, and he didn't know what to do._ Too soon,_ he thought. _Too bloody much, too bloody soon, and now we're here, and… maybe I'm a little better at this than he is, but… maybe not as much better as I thought._ The sunlight had shifted fully behind the hotel, now, and he could see the figure below more clearly. _Do I recognize him? I'm not sure. It doesn't matter, he'll figure it out. It's my job to figure __this__ out._ He looked back at Sherlock, who hadn't moved; but it was beyond not moving, now – he sat nearly frozen, as if afraid to move. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I…"

Sherlock shook his head a single time. "A student. Wearing the suit they've bought for him. Gets good grades, but not as good as he could – "

"Sherlock, stop." He raised his hand tentatively over Sherlock's arm. Sherlock's eyes flicked to him but returned quickly back to the window. _Should I? Too damn soon. _John sighed again, hand still hovering.

"– get. Do you think I should remind Mycroft to feed Marie? She's probably crying by now." Sherlock's hand fired to his pocket.

But John was faster; he closed his fingers over Sherlock's wrist. "She's fine, Sherlock. Stop." He licked his lips. _Am I really going to do this? I'm not ready. I am thoroughly not ready. But I can't leave him like this._ "Come… come over here." He tugged Sherlock's wrist, stepping towards the bed. Terror flashed over Sherlock's face, his phone clutched in his hand. "Please? It'll be all right."

Sherlock slowly rose, his eyes dilated and locked with John's.

"I promise, Sherlock." He backed slowly to the bed and sat.

Sherlock's wrist was going sweaty, and his pulse was skyrocketing. John closed his eyes. _I didn't think I'd be doing this for months, at least. But, now, here we are. All right. Well, the only thing I really __have__ to do is keep him from keeling over – and keep his heart from breaking, I suppose. I don't have a lot of time before he draws his own conclusions, but I also don't want to screw this up._ He opened his eyes again and scanned Sherlock's. _Beautiful,_ he thought. _Can I think that, now? Am I allowed? How the hell…_ Sherlock's wrist moved a bit beneath his thumb, sending a frisson of electricity through him. And then he figured it out. He settled his thumb more firmly on Sherlock's wrist, ensuring that he'd be felt; and then moved it – just a little. Sherlock nearly jumped from the bed. John laid a hand on his shoulder. "Wait. Just…" he shook his head, looking down at the floor and back at Sherlock's eyes. "Just wait. Okay?"

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. "Oh… Okay."

"I want you to promise me that for the next…" John looked at his Army watch, "…at least five minutes, you will neither move from this spot nor contradict me. Can you do that? Five minutes?"

"Much can happen in five minutes."

"Yes," John agreed, "it can." _You've no bloody idea how much, have you, Sherlock?_ "But will you do it anyway?"

Sherlock rubbed his free hand along his trouser leg. He considered. "Barring…"

"The usual catastrophes which seem to mar our mutual existences, yes. Barring those."

Sherlock nodded. "All right."

"Thank you." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. _I've no bloody idea what the hell I'm doing. _He opened them and gazed at the floor, where the swans sat._ No bloody idea at all. I don't know what to do, or what to say…_

"Are you going to say anything?"

He smiled. "Yes. But you have to let me. Okay?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Okay…"

"It's been a hell of a year, Sherlock. A hell of a year." He sighed, staring at the swans again. "Between you and Mary, you've just about worn me out. You've defined and redefined 'ass' and 'betrayal' again and again."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

John tightened his grip. "But."

Sherlock peered up sideways at him.

He glanced back at the swans, then let his vision blur a little before meeting Sherlock's gaze. "I also understand… sort of… why you did it. And you – all four of you – have also taught me more about love than I ever knew, or thought I knew, or ever would know, before. So when I say that I long ago grew to accept and love you, Sherlock… I mean that. No, wait, five minutes, now." He watched Sherlock's face. "After you died, so many times – _so_ many times – I just about followed you. I would go stare at that stone in the cemetery and just stand there, wishing myself beneath the earth, Sherlock, but it never obliged me. No matter how long I stood, or how I wished, it never did crack open and swallow me up so that…" he closed his eyes… "…so that I could come after you. I don't know whether I meant to pull you back with me or stay wherever you'd gone, but I sure as hell didn't mean to exist alone. Nevertheless, that bloody grave stayed resolutely still… and silent… and cold… and it wouldn't admit me. I would go back to my flat and sit with my gun in hand, just… waiting. Waiting for it to pick itself up and make it happen so I could be with you. Do you understand? I was so angry with you – not for going, but for going without me." He glanced at the ceiling. _No. I… it's over. He's back, and there's no use going through it again, never mind what kind of nightmares I may have, never mind whether he'll ever understand or not, it's over. And that isn't the point, anyway._ He stilled his thumb, which had started tracing circles over Sherlock's wrist, and realized that his jaw was clenched. _Get to the point. Quickly._ "And then Mary showed up, and pulled me back from the edge – "

"I sent her."

His gaze darted to Sherlock. "What?"

"I sent her."

John blinked. "What do you mean?"

"That was my price, John. That she look after you. Not in that way, of course not, because…" Sherlock looked away. "Well. Not in _that_ way, not _romantically_. I didn't expect that; I didn't think she'd fall for you – and I _certainly _didn't expect you to care for her. But I couldn't tell you I was alive, not yet, and I knew you weren't… all right, so I told her enough about you that maybe you'd hire her and she could keep an eye on you until I could get back… and do it myself." He met John's eye again. "Mycroft helped a bit to get her settled, encourage you subtly to hire her. But I didn't think you'd… not so soon."

_Oh, my God. My God, my God._

"What I'm trying to say is that I knew you were unhappy, and I just wanted someone to watch you until I returned. It didn't occur to me to tell her not to become romantically _involved_ with you."

"You bloody moron," John whispered.

"Not… not good?"

John shook his head a little. "No… it's not… I just… sometimes, you can really surprise the hell out of me. It's happened a lot lately."

"Honestly," Sherlock said, "I didn't expect you to get married, but… I just wanted you happy, John."

"You bloody idiot. You always make things too complicated, Sherlock." John's eyes were filling. "You could really just have called… or texted… or… God, Sherlock, what's your IQ? One phone call would've done it."

"And… that would have made you happy?"

_"Yes! God,_ you can be such an idiot – I _loved_ you, Sherlock!" He pressed his lips together. "I still do." And then he turned quickly away. _Wonderful,_ he thought, _who's terrified now, Doctor Watson?_ Several moments passed._ What did I just do? What the hell am I thinking? I should've just ended it two years ago and saved us all the trouble. Christ. Why didn't he just take me with him?_ _I would've gone. Anywhere. I… still would. _Expression after expression melted over his face and his eyes finally overflowed.

"Are…" Sherlock's voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible. "Are you in earnest?"

John turned slowly. He met his eyes, his heart beating erratically within his chest. _What do I say, what do I say…_ _My God, as if I could ever lie to those eyes. _"I am," he said, just as quietly.

Sherlock watched him carefully. "May I move now?"

John sniffed. He nodded.

Sherlock pulled John's forgotten hand, slowly around his waist, and slid over. He placed his arms around him, stiffly at first, but with increasing confidence. John closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into the warmth of Sherlock's shoulder as he started to shake with the sobs – and after perhaps a minute had passed, Sherlock whispered, "Good. I am as well."


	7. Ch Svn Not Too Soon Cant Come Soon Enoug

Chapter Seven: Not Too Soon Can't Come Soon Enough

Sherlock sat quietly with John in his arms. He turned his head a bit, just enough – to feel John's hair brush his jaw. He closed his eyes, inhaling softly over John's head to draw in the delicate scent as John cried into his chest. _Hm. _His brow furrowed and released again… and again… and again. He knew the crying had to do with him, but he wasn't _really_ certain what – _exactly… specifically,_ so to speak,he had done – that was to say, _right now – _or how to fix it _– _and he didn't want to make it worse, certainly. All he really _was_ sure of… was that he didn't want to let go. But he was, on repeated consideration, coming to the conclusion, that he must say _something,_ and it had best, in the balance, be something _helpful_. He glanced upwards, thinking. "John?"

There was a little hiccup. The hair moved. _I suppose I'd better…_ he loosened his grasp, and John's ash-blond hair slid by. He blinked slowly, breathing deeply, not realizing what he was doing as his fingers slowly uncurled. "I'm… really…" he glanced sideways.

John chuckled.

He turned back, his fingertips registering the final departing fibers of John's fisherman's sweater. "What?"

John blotted his eyes on his sleeve, smiling somewhat weakly and shaking his head. "You. Nothing. You." He met Sherlock's gaze. "Stop apologizing."

He glanced away again.

"Look, Sherlock, this… I think it's meant to happen. I really do." John sniffed and chuckled again. "Came a bit later than I thought, actually; but, all right, now, here we are. Point is, I do think it's meant to happen. But…" he rubbed his hands on his jeans.

Sherlock's palms went cold. He picked them up and inspected them curiously. _Vasoconstriction. Hm. Not sure I would've…_

John took one of his hands and pressed it between his own. "Look at me, Sherlock."

He was actively inspecting the room. _Romance novels, how tacky. Wonder how old that ceiling fan is. Did they dust it?_

"Look. At. Me."

He pursed his lips and drummed his heels on the floor a few times, but… he did it. _I… can't. _He closed his eyes. And felt John's thumb smoothing his brow. He opened them again.

"It's a bit too soon, Sherlock. You've got to wait for _me_ this time. All right? Won't be long, love. But… it's still a bit too soon."

_'Love?' Taken all together with the rest, that was an error on his part. Simple slip of the tongue. Understandable; nothing to it, nothing more. _"Right," he said, slapping his thighs. He constricted his thighs to stand.

"Sherlock."

He turned his head upon his neck. "Too soon. I heard you. Do you think – " his heart was hammering. _Why is he looking at me like that I don't know what that means what does it mean John I don't know what you want help me understand speak clearly…_

"I didn't say 'never,' Sherlock, and I didn't say 'no.' I didn't say 'I don't think so,' and I didn't say 'let me think about it.' I said, 'yes, but you have to wait,' Sherlock."

"John," he said, licking his lips, "I told you once… this isn't really my area. So if I don't get it quite right… if I make mistakes… _when_ I make mistakes, John, as I inevitably will…" He dropped his chin to his chest. "Perhaps you _should_ say one of those things, John. Perhaps you should say it _now."_

"Mm… no. No, Sherlock, I don't think so. You don't seem to be getting this, and so… let me try… something else." He gently took Sherlock's chin in his finger and thumb, pulling it back to face him.

_What… don't do that, I cannot face you, don't you see? _

John's eyes moved in Sherlock's. "Your memory… it works for images, yeah?"

"Yes," he answered, narrowing his eyes, trying to turn his head a bit. _You know this; I know you know this…_

"Stored… in the…"

"Hippocampus, largely, but it's much more complicated than that, John, it's not _actually_ a palace, you know; it's not a _place_ at all, it's a series of inter-related…"

John waved a hand. "Whist. All right. But somewhere… less primal than, say, where you might store memories of your… reactions to things."

"Well, _yes,_ John, _obviously;_ but…" his eyes darted to John's hand, which left his chin to close lightly over the back of his hand. "…but …what…"

"So I want you…" John's thumb was stroking the backs of his knuckles, now.

He started breathing quickly.

"…to remember…" John's _other_ hand moved to his ear. He slid closer. Their knees touched.

_Antihelix, he's stimulating the tiny hairs over my antihelix and the dorsal aspect of my contralateral proximal inter phalangeal joints… I can't watch both simultaneously… I can only feel…_ he met John's eyes. Briefly.

"…your reactions…" his hand combed through Sherlock's hair, coming to rest where it could cradle his head.

Yes, he met John's eyes _very_ briefly, because… they closed. Sherlock exhaled, swallowed, and flexed his hand as John came close, so close. Their knees were pressed together, and he was afraid to move – even had he _wanted _to move, had he not _felt _the warmth of John's breath, the closeness, John's certainty swallowing his fear. His breathing steadied. His nose brushed John's lightly, slowly, though he was no longer certain which of them was moving. John's fingers soothed his hair, both electrifying and calming him as he waited… for the last… words. _I don't know what to… yes. Yes, I do. _He closed his eyes._ This now, this moment, John…_

"…to this," John whispered, and he was so close that the words became the kiss on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock slowly extended his arm once more, seeking the natural wool of John's sweater and pulling them together as John's words closed gently over his lips. _Don't… please, don't make me move._ Sherlock slowly kissed him again, sliding his hand up John's back as he grew warm. _Never, John… please, I hear you, but…_ _don't ask me to… _he felt John's slight withdrawal and tipped his head forward, his lips slowly leaving John's. _…move. _He sighed and let his forehead rest instead against John's. He couldn't bear to open his eyes. John's fingers still wound through his hair, but they were beginning to release him. He pressed his lips together, the ghost of a kiss still upon them, and drew his hand back into his lap, leaving his forehead lying against John's.

"John?" he asked quietly after a moment.

"Yeah." John replied, just as quietly, his fingers feathering along the back of Sherlock's neck.

"How soon… do you suppose it won't be 'too soon' any more?" he asked, and a small smile flitted briefly across his face.

"I enjoyed it as well, Sherlock."

He nodded.

Then he rose and went back to sit in the dormer-window.


	8. Chapter Eight: Let Me Be Your Medicine

Chapter Eight: Let Me Be Your Medicine

_Can't go back_

_And undo_

_The many hurts_

_I've given you._

_But if I could,_

_I'd make it right – _

_Not just this one,_

_But every night._

_That… was intense,_ John thought as he uneasily watched Sherlock sitting in the window. _I was expecting – something – but I thought it would be a little more under my control._ _I need to get out of here. I'd go take a walk, except I can't seem to leave. _He cleared his throat. "I think… I'll go take a shower," he said, standing up and swinging his arms.

"Mm," Sherlock answered.

"Right," he replied. And off he went.

He stretched it as long as was reasonable, and then pulled on a clean undershirt and jeans and came out to find Sherlock unmoved – except for the phone in his palm, into which he gazed intently. "You're depressed," Sherlock declared to the phone.

John blinked. He looked sideways for a second, narrowing his eyes. "Well of _course_ I'm depressed, Sherlock."

"How long have you been experiencing symptoms?"

He took a few steps. "What?"

"How long have you been experiencing symptoms?"

"Roughly… three years… what are you looking at, Sherlock?"

"Mm… no. I mean _constant, consistent, unbroken_ symptoms."

He walked over behind Sherlock and peeked over his shoulder. "Sherlock, that's not even _academic_."

Sherlock shrugged in deliberation. "Student acronym – still on target and… relevant." He peered up at John. "You feel guilt over Mary's death – "

"Of _course – "_

"You're tired all the time," he looked back at his phone.

"I'm a new _father."_

"You can't concentrate on _anything_ lately,"

"Sherlock…"

"You've gained eight pounds…"

"Five."

Sherlock turned his head and met John's eye. "Eight. You move with exceptional…" he paused, "…I shall call it deliberation,"

"You mean I'm slow."

"Your word." He gazed out the window. "So I want to know whether it's been _consistent – "_

_ "Yes!_ All right, Sherlock? Yes. And before you ask, yes, and yes, all right? Yes." He turned and walked to the bed. "Don't they believe in chairs in this _bloody_ place?" he sank slowly back onto the mattress.

Sherlock slowly slid his phone into his pocket. He sat with his fingers steepled for a few moments. Then he rose and came around the bed, sitting awkwardly opposite John. "There were some down in the lobby; I'd be happy to go get one."

John stared at him for a few seconds. "Aren't you feeling well?"

"Fine – why?"

He shook his head. "No reason. Usually – never mind. Don't bother. You never did say, by the way – how long will we be here?"

Sherlock propped up a pair of pillows and settled back against the white iron frame. He crossed his long legs, looking significantly more comfortable. "Well, breakfast with our college student down there…"

"Breakfast? You mean to invite him to _breakfast?"_

"Certainly, John, I'm not a complete – what did you call me? A machine?" He glanced sideways.

John flushed.

"We need information – he'll need coffee. Fair trade."

"And you think he'll just tell us. Just like that."

Sherlock pursed his lips, deliberating. "Mm… I believe I can convince him. Anyway, breakfast with our future MP; then some time at the University; possibly another interview – " he shrugged. "We could be on tomorrow night's train, if things go well." He glanced at John. "Or… not."

John flushed an even deeper pink. "I don't want to leave them with Mycroft any longer than absolutely necessary."

"Mm… no, I see your point. Oh, actually, I thought you might see it that way, so…" he pulled out his phone and handed it to John, "…I asked him to send me a video of him _personally_ doing something with _each_ of them."

"He's got Marie in one of Oliver's outfits," John said quietly, smiling at the close-up of Marie in the little sailor suit. _Yeah, but he's holding her. He's actually holding her._

"Yep. But at least he's holding her, John. Look at the video of Oliver."

He finished watching Marie, running his thumb over the pixels of her brow, wishing he were actually feeling the remaining soft, dark hair that hadn't yet fallen out. Then he opened the video of Oliver and slowly grinned. "That was cruel, Sherlock." Mycroft held Oliver, trying to feed him, and dancing a waltz. It was _similar_ to the steps Sherlock used to settle Oliver when he was fussy… but not quite the same, and Mycroft's face clearly betrayed his irritation. He growled at the phone, "I'm about to call Doctor Zhao, Sherlock, because I _cannot_ get him to eat… please call." Mycroft voice was slow, quiet, and clear, as he glared into the phone.

John handed him the phone back. Sherlock set it on the bedside table. "Aren't you going to call?" John asked.

"He's bluffing," Sherlock said. "Just won't admit he can't figure it out."

"Oliver, Sherlock. If he won't eat."

"Hm," Sherlock sighed, "true. All right. Here," he said, handing John the phone, "you call. He's _your_ son."

"He's _your_ brother!" He paused, handing the phone back. "And your son as well… for all intents and purposes in any case."

Sherlock stared at him for a long while, then extended his hand and took the phone. He dialed. "Mycroft… Yes… _Yes_, he's hungry…" he sighed. "Add an extra step, Mycroft, every third… yes, all right…" he pulled back and glanced at the phone. "No! No, I will not; listen, Mycroft, just put the phone to his ear… _No,_ I'm not joking, just do it." He looked at John, rolled his eyes, and smiled. "Oliver… stop, Oliver, it's Father… Yes, there you go, good… That's good… Daddy's here, want to talk to him? Just a second." He handed the phone to John. "Here, John, say something."

John took the phone. "Oliver?" The baby hiccupped in the background. "Oliver, it's daddy." Oliver sighed. "Be good, now. Be good for Uncle Mycroft. I know he's a bit of a… well. We'll be home tomorrow… or maybe the day after. Love you, babe." There was a pause, and Mycroft came on the line. "Tomorrow, John?"

"Or the day after. It depends on how things… go."

"Yes. At the… Viscount Manor." There was a pause. "Charming little place. Do enjoy."

"Mycroft, do something for me, would you?"

"And that would be…"

"Change Marie. Please. That's Oliver's outfit. There's another one for her, but it's almost bedtime anyway, so a sleeper would be better."

"You _do _know she doesn't really care."

"Mycroft, please. Just change her. And feed Oliver, he's getting upset again."

"Actually, John, I've a specialist on the way, so I don't want you to worry about a thing."

"A… specialist?" He glanced at Sherlock and mouthed, _'he's got a specialist on the way!'_

"Give me the phone," Sherlock said.

He shook his head. "What do you mean, Mycroft."

Mycroft chuckled.

"John. Give. Me. The. Phone."

"Oh, _do,_ Doctor Watson," Mycroft said.

He sighed and handed the phone back.

"Mycroft… Oh, hell, Mycroft, you didn't… When will they arrive?... Yes, yes, all right, but remember, it was _your_ idea, and you still are responsible… No, I will _not…_ Goodnight, Mycroft. Feed Oliver, he's starving." And with that, he hung up, tapped the phone on his knee and set it back on the table.

"What was that about?"

"Mycroft. Called our parents."

"Ah. Specialists. Right."

They sat there for several moments.

"Yes and yes, John?"

John turned. "What?"

"You said 'yes and yes.' I'm wondering… still?"

He closed his eyes, still facing Sherlock.

"John?"

He sighed. Several moments passed. Then Sherlock asked, "Have you started SSRI medications? Because sometimes they can make things worse. And I don't want you taking tricyclics, I'm afraid of what you'd… do."

John opened his eyes. He met Sherlock's glance and closed his eyes again. A few moments later, he felt the weight of a warm, long-fingered hand settle on his head. He chewed his lip and opened his eyes once more.

"Nightmares?" Sherlock asked quietly, starting to stroke his hair. "I mean… I know you have them, John. But… nightmares that… aren't about the war?"

He licked his lips and nodded. "Yeah. I mean, yeah, you're right."

"And… you don't still want to…" he paused. "Tell me you don't still want to die, John."

He didn't say anything.

"John."

"You know, you can't just… suddenly decide everything's all right, Sherlock."

Sherlock's fingers ran softly through his hair. "No. You can't. But… Listen, John. You're not alone anymore."

"No. I have these tiny babies relying on me, and this slightly larger one also relying on me."

"I _ought_ to be offended by that, John, but I know that you're simply trying to put me off, and I won't be put off, John. You're right, though – they… no, we – _are _relying on you. But that's not what I meant. I told you I'd be there, and I meant it. Furthermore… let's take Marie and Oliver out of the picture for the purposes of this discussion. I made a mistake three years ago. Several, actually, and I regret them, deeply – except that had I acted differently, we wouldn't have the twins. In any case, I… failed you, then. And myself. I left half of myself behind that day, and I couldn't go back for it, and I've been trying to retrieve it ever since. I promise, John… I will _never…_ do that to you again. I understand that you're going through a lot just now and that you perhaps don't even _want_ to heal. But…"

John sighed. "I'll start the bloody medications, Sherlock, all right?"

Sherlock's fingers stopped for a second. "No, John. No… actually, I want you to let me be your medications."

A crease formed between John's eyes. "It's emotions, Sherlock. To use your words, 'not your area.'"

"I can learn."

"You never have before."

"It never mattered before."

"And suddenly it does now?"

"It… does now. Not suddenly. Let me try."

He blinked wearily at Sherlock. "Try away. But… it's not going to just go away all of a sudden, Sherlock."

"I know. Come here."

"Sherlock…"

"Trust? I just want to hold you. Not for me. For you."

He considered Sherlock for a while longer, then slid smoothly into his arms. The late afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across the room. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, drawing in the mixed scent of soap, spiced deodorant, and perspiration that was just… him. Sherlock's arm closed over his waist.

"Aren't you uncomfortable?" John murmured. "You've been in those bloody trousers since we got here."

"I'm fine, John."

He nodded. _God, I'm tired._ He yawned. "Do you think Mycroft got them fed?"

Sherlock considered. "Probably. If he has problems, I'm sure he'll call." He chuckled. "Did you see his face?"

John smiled. "I can't believe you did that to him. He's going to see it as his duty to get back at you now, you know."

"I'm strangely unconcerned."

"You called me 'daddy.'"

He felt Sherlock look down at him. "Mm – isn't that what you want them to call you?"

"Honestly… it's funny, but I hadn't thought about it." He rolled a little, curling over onto Sherlock's chest. "Do… do you mind if I…" he lifted his arm from his side to hover over Sherlock's middle.

Sherlock pulled it across his chest and held it there. "Go to sleep, John."

"I'm not ti… all right. Wake me for supper." He closed his eyes. "Sherlock. Wake me for supper."

Sherlock pulled him closer. "Go to sleep. I'll make sure you get supper when you wake up."

"Not for me, you great moron," he muttered. "You haven't eaten all day." Sherlock's fingers combed through his hair again… and again… and again… and…

When he woke up, the only light came from the pole outside. He took a deep breath and looked at his watch. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "wasn't supper at seven?"

"I've made alternate arrangements," Sherlock replied. "Do you feel better?"

He sat up. "What kind of 'arrangements?'"

"I texted the innkeeper. He'll bring food up whenever we're ready. And he'll leave it outside the door, so… no unnecessary comments."

John rose and went to look out the window. "Wonder if we should send some food down to _him_."

"Right. Want to invite him in as well?"

John glanced up. "Not particularly." After a few moments, he said, "thank you."

"For?"

"Everything."

Sherlock stood uncomfortably for a moment, then turned and started rooting through his suitcase. He pulled out a pair of pajamas and, mumbling, "it's fine, John," disappeared into the bathroom.

"Do you want me to call downstairs?" John called through the door.

"What?"

"Do you want me to call for – "

Water was running in the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, John; I can't hear you."

_Well, I'm __not__ coming in after you. Not quite yet. Nice try, though, you._ He poked his head through the door. "Do you want me to call for supper?"

"Oh. No, I'll do it. Won't be a minute."

He shut the door, shrugging and went over to the dormer window, pushing the lace curtain aside. Their stalker sat on the street corner below, elbows on knees. _Wonder how much he's paid the innkeeper to ignore his loitering. We could just go deal with this right now… Hm. I expect he's probably right. He usually is. __Do__ I know him? He looks __awfully__… familiar._ He stared and thought, but could come up with nothing. The bathroom door opened, releasing a great deal of warm steam and a freshly-pressed Sherlock in T-shirt and pajama pants. _It should be illegal, _he thought,_ making five-quid clothes look so good._ He turned back to the window. "Hasn't moved," he said.

Sherlock came up behind him, phone in hand. "No… I don't expect he will. He's paid enough for the privilege."

John chuckled.

"Salmon oscar all right?"

He glanced up over his shoulder. "What? Yeah. Yeah, of course. Thanks."

After a somewhat strange supper of excellent food eaten on the hotel room floor, they played cards, and Sherlock told John a little more of how he met Mary in the Carpathian mountains ("she contrived to be captured by a local militarist band; I secured her release"), and John told Sherlock a _very_ little about his time with Mary before Sherlock returned ("there really isn't much to _tell_, Sherlock – I worked in the clinic with her, and, you know, it went from there"). Mostly, Sherlock told him about his adventures abroad, as they hadn't really had much time simply to sit alone and talk. Sherlock kindly allowed John to win a hand or two, and eventually, they turned in.

**

John stepped from the cab, and started running.

"Hello?"

"John?"

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask!... Please!"

"Where?" He walked, searching.

"Stop there."

Searching.

"Sherlock?"

Searching. Searching…

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

_Found. Oh… God. No. Not again. Please, God, not again, not again… _"Oh, God." Sherlock stood atop St. Bart's Hospital, coat billowing out occasionally behind him, phone to his ear.

"I… I can't come down…"

_You don't want to do this, you never did, don't do this, I can stop it this time, I have a couple of minutes, let me think it through… Just let me think…_

"…so we'll have to do it like this…"

_No! No. I reject this. _"No! No, Sherlock, I won't, no…" he shouted, but Sherlock didn't hear. He tried again. The only words he'd ever heard. "What's going on?"

"An apology."

_No. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never told you. I can still tell you. I can tell you now, I can still stop it yet._ "I love you, Sherlock, don't, please don't…" but he didn't hear. "WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN TO ME?" _God… _

"It's all true."

_I'm going to be sick._ "What?"

"Everything they said about me."

_Don't you see? I don't care, Sherlock, I never did, only for you did I ever care. I don't give a damn what they said or say… they put you up there you great idiot, come down, come down now, please come down, _"Come down, Sherlock, it doesn't matter, just come down…"

"I invented Moriarty…"

_He's dead, Sherlock. Behind you. Look and see. It doesn't matter anymore, _"Just come down."_ Why in the hell can't you hear me? You… never… LISTEN!_ "Why are you saying this?"_ God, I'm so confused, there are only a few seconds left…_ "Just come down, please… we can talk…"

"I'm a fake…"

_Do you know how it hurts when you say that? Every time? Not for me, you great idiot, but for you, because I know how it hurts you to say it… God, Sherlock, please, I'm begging you…_ "Sherlock!"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly… In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you…"

"I want _you_ to listen to _me_, Sherlock! Listen to me right _now!_ It doesn't _matter,_ don't you _see?_ None of it matters, Sherlock! Listen, just step backwards, I'm coming up there, I promise we can fix this, just… don't… please. I… I can't do this again. Please."

"…that I created Moriarty for my own purposes…"

_Why can't I __move__? Why can't I ever __move__? His __life__ is on the line and I… __can't__… MOVE!_

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met…" _desperate… I'm desperate… but this won't work, it never does, never…_ "…you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

_He laughed! He laughed, maybe it will work… this… no. No, it never does. Why can't I move?_

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

_No. No, no, no. Please, God, no. Something. There must be something I can do._ "No. Stop it, now."

"No. Stay exactly where you are! Don't move!"

"All right!" _It's his fault! It's his FAULT I can't move, he won't LET me help him, why won't he ever let me __help__? Doesn't he get it, doesn't he know what he means, what this will do to me, to us… there won't be an us, God…. _

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!"

_Sherlock, why? Why, if you must do this, why must I watch? You've doomed me, eternally, forever. There is nothing for me, now. Nothing._

"Please, will you do this for me?"

"Anything. I'll do anything for you, love. Anything. Only, please… don't. Please." _No. No, no, no._ "Do what?"

"This phone call, it's… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

"NO!"_ Run! Run to him. Catch him. GOD, WHY CAN'T I MOVE?_ "Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't." _No. NO! NONONONO… Not again, God, No, you promised, you PROMISED! YOU BLOODY BASTARD, YOU GODDAMN BASTARD, YOU PROMISED!_ "SHERLOCK!"_ YOU ARE A FATHER, NOW! YOU PROMISED ME, YOU PROMISED THEM, PLEASE! Please. please. __please. _"please,"he whispered, but it made no difference. It never made a difference.

He fell.

Forever and ever, he fell, until there was a sickening crunch, and John ran… _Oh, now I can move, of course, __now__…_ and the bicycle hit him, and he got up again, but… there was someone holding him back. He fought. "Don't you see, can't you see, I have to get to him, I can still save him, he's my… he's _Sherlock…_" and he looked up, and it was Mary. Mary was smiling at him, holding him, and he looked between them, confused, but she wouldn't talk, and she wouldn't bloody let… him… _move_. They were moving Sherlock, but he could still… if he could just _get… to… him… "SHER…"_

"John."

"No! No… Move…"

"John, it's all right."

His pulse was racing, and he couldn't bloody _move._ "God _da…"_

"John."

_What? What!_

An arm snaked beneath him. His breath hitched. _My God, my God, my God._ He rolled into a warm T-shirt without further consideration.

"It's over, John."

He shook his head. "Never. It's never over."

Sherlock pulled him tighter. "It is. I promise."

He sighed. "You promised before I fell asleep. It happened anyway."

"Tell me."

"No."

"It will help."

"It won't."

"It will help _me."_

John looked up. "Have you slept at all, Sherlock?"

"Mm… a bit. You know I sleep… erratically." Sherlock turned onto his side, facing John. "Please."

He studied Sherlock in the low light. Sherlock was watching him intently. So he said, "they wouldn't let me get to you… I… I couldn't reach you. Again." He closed his eyes, and Sherlock was falling again. "Look, I really don't want to…"

"All right. Listen, John…"

_His eyes are so unearthly blue._

"…I know this will take time…"

"Mm," he said softly. "Perhaps. Probably. But… I can reach you now."

Sherlock was lying quite still – in the way that only he could be still – watching him.

"You are willing to work through this." John's eyes scrutinized Sherlock's; he pushed his arm between Sherlock's neck and his pillow to reach up behind his ear. "With me."

Sherlock nodded.

"And you won't ever – _ever, _mind – do that to me again."

"Never." Sherlock glanced sideways and shrugged a little. "Barring – "

"No! No, Sherlock. No 'barring' anything. You work it out. You work it out, or we end this right here, right now."

Sherlock blinked and pressed his lips together; but ultimately, he nodded.

"Then, Sherlock… 'too soon' ended the day we met. Come here." He slid his fingers into Sherlock's.

Sherlock shuddered.

John pulled his hand free and caressed Sherlock's cheekbone. "It really isn't fair, you know," he whispered.

"What?" Sherlock's fingers ghosted down the side of his neck, and he closed his eyes as a wave passed through his belly.

"How gorgeous your eyes are, and you don't even know it…" his cheek found Sherlock's.

"You shaved…"

"I… what? Yes, I… shut up, you idiot, I'm trying… to…" his lips slid over Sherlock's at last, "…kiss you."

Sherlock's fingers closed securely over the back of his neck and John kissed him gently, tenderly, again and again, working – hard – to ignore the hunger that blazed to life as Sherlock's fingers massaged the back of his neck. _No. Slowly, now – we have…_ "Hmm…"_ No… God…_ "Hmm… Sherlock, wait…"_ Ah, Christ, what am I doing?_

Sherlock's lips brushed his. "Hm?" Sherlock kissed him again, pulling gently on his top lip. "What?" Then Sherlock kissed his lower lip, and his arm rested along John's side, but it was sliding lower, tracing lines of cold fire along his ribs.

He nipped Sherlock's lip, lightly, tasting it…_ That… isn't helping…_ "Mm… No. Wait. Stop, Sherlock. Stop." He took a deep breath. The scent of Sherlock came with it. _That isn't much better…_

Sherlock's fingers flexed into his ribs.

_God. Waited… how many years for this?... and now, I'm…_

"Slow… Slow down. I'm not going anywhere. Okay? Let's just… slow. Yeah?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Can… Can I just sleep like this? Tonight? And… and we'll see what happens tomorrow… tomorrow?"

Sherlock nodded again.

He exhaled deeply and rested his head on Sherlock's arm as he pulled Sherlock to him.

"John, wait."

_Shit._ "Yeah?"

"Let me get the blanket over you, all right?"

He smiled. "Both of us. Goodnight, love." He laid both hands along Sherlock's cheeks and kissed him again, gently.

"Goodnight," Sherlock whispered. "I'll be here. I promise."

"Thank you," John whispered, and he closed his eyes once more and slept.


	9. Chapter Nine: The Game is My Child

Chapter Nine: The Game is – My _Child_

_This may turn out to be the longest night in history,_ Sherlock thought, pulling John close as he started murmuring once more.

"'M sorry…" John said. "…move …please, _move …move!"_

"Shh," Sherlock said quietly, leaning over his ear, "John, it isn't _real._ It isn't _real,_ John; I'm right _here…"_ he sighed, and at that, John settled. _Hmm._ He slid further down into the bed, studying his… John… in a way he'd never been allowed to do before. He knew his face, to the minute detail, but to be able to look – freely, at will, without having to turn away – well. No, he hadn't slept; of course, he hadn't. Breathed John in, yes. Traced his eyebrows, rubbed his back, studied his worry lines – listened to his breathing and night time muttering – yes, yes, yes, and yes. But sleep could wait. _There's a long sleep at the end. This night, this now, John – there will only be one. It will only happen once, this night, so let it be long. Let it be exquisitely, painfully, sweetly long, because there will only be one._ And again, as John slipped back into deeper sleep, he kissed him – softly, tenderly – on the little Cupid's bow that made him look so young._ Is he kissing me back? Does it matter? No. It doesn't. Draw no conclusions; make no inferences. Only feel – that is what I'm learning to do, isn't it?_ His head twitched, listening._ Was... that…?_ He slid his thumb softly down John's side, and, as he had all night long, John curled in closer. Sherlock closed his eyes and curved his chin over John's crown.

_Yes… damn._ The first notes of 'God Save the Queen' sounded softly from his phone. _Damn it, Mycroft… What? Did they soil your bloody fingers?_ He rolled carefully over, checking his watch. Four-thirty-four. _Hm._ He picked up the phone. "Mycroft," he said quietly.

John stirred.

He glanced to one side and splayed the small hairs at the back of John's neck between his fingers.

"Forgive me, Sherlock…"

He sat up, pulling his arm free. "What's wrong?" _No smart-ass remarks… no 'brother dear'…_

John opened his eyes. Sherlock pressed his finger to John's lips and smiled.

There was nothing on the other end of the line. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed. "Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. "There's really no easy way to say this, Sherlock…"

He bolted to the window and pulled the curtain aside. John was sitting up. _Oh my God._ The student was gone. _Well-dressed. Used to being pampered. Economics. Finance. Law, maybe, less likely given that he's probably engaged in something illegal and it would be unusual this early. Accent South London, though, middle working-class, so needs the money, wants to impress, Cambridge was a stretch…_

"When," he said flatly, staring out the window, tallying up what he knew already.

"I haven't…" Mycroft stuttered.

"Mycroft. When. Did. They. Get. Them." He bolted to his suitcase. John was flying out of bed.

Mycroft sighed again. "Well – I suppose that's good news, then…"

"Damn it, Mycroft!"

"They only got one."

He froze. "Who." He was changing, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, tossing clothes to John.

"Oliver."

He closed his eyes.

"How? No. Never mind. When can you get here?"

"Do you want discreet? Or do you want fast?"

"They know we're coming, Mycroft. I want fast."

"There's a hospital three blocks south of you with a landing pad. I shall be there in five minutes."

"You? Or your… people?"

"He _is_ my… nephew. Of sorts."

"I'll need to question the innkeeper."

"I know. I'm… having him made ready… as we speak. They'll bring him separately so we can speak freely en route."

"All right. Mycroft… what are they demanding?"

There was a pause.

"Mycroft."

"They… aren't making any demands, Sherlock."

_Steady. Breathe. Think. Molly._ "Get me Molly Hooper."

"What?"

"Molly Hooper. Have her brought to the house. And… and the babies' medical records. And mine. And John's. And… and yours, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, that's…"

"Just _do_ it, Mycroft!"

Another pause.

Finally… "All right. And… Sherlock?"

"What."

"I'm… I'm sorry."

"Don't be _sorry,_ Mycroft. Be effective."

And with that, he hung up the phone and turned. John was as white as Sherlock had ever seen him. "John…" _Fast, Sherlock. Now is not the time. _"They have Oliver," he said. "Put on your clothes, John; Mycroft is coming."

John just stared at him.

He closed the distance. "It'll be all right, John. We'll get him."

John didn't move.

_Shock. Not physiologic – psychologic. Not alone. I promised. Think. No. Don't think. Feel. No. Think. No. Breathe._ He closed the distance and pulled John to him. _Sigh… into his ear._ "It's going to be all right, John," he whispered over his ear, and something in John drooped a little. He put his arms under John's, supporting him. "All you need to do right now, right this second, is get dressed, all right? That's all. Here." He handed him jeans and his favorite sweater and led him back to the bed. The next several minutes were the longest minutes in the longest night Sherlock had ever spent. He helped John dress, very aware of the passage of time, then actually had to hurry him to the local University Hospital, where Mycroft's helicopter was waiting.

They ran up an enclosed staircase, but before they emerged onto the heli-pad, he stopped. John gazed dully at him.

"Mr. Holmes, sir? They're waiting," the emergency nurse who had escorted them up shouted over the noise.

"Give us a minute," he shouted back, and the man nodded and ran out to the helicopter.

John was staring at him.

His stomach clenched. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I didn't…" he glanced out through the narrow window. "I should've talked to him when we had him. I'm sorry."

John just stared.

His abdomen… twisted._ I never realized… it would hurt this much._ He closed his eyes and pulled John to him, hugging him tightly. "Hold me," he whispered. "I'm afraid, too, John."

It was slow, but John's arms did close around him.

He held him for a few moments, then pressed his face against John's ear. "Come on," he whispered. "Marie wants her brother back."

John took his face in both hands and kissed him, gently at first, but then hungrily, his mouth opening with a desperation that shot through Sherlock's core. John held them together, sliding his tongue past Sherlock's once, twice, once more, and then he let go, kissing him softly and then pulling back. Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair, letting his palm cover the back of John's head, pulling it into the crook of his neck. "We'll get him back, John."

The door opened. Sherlock looked up and met Mycroft's eye – and then he nodded, and Mycroft backed out. Sherlock kissed John's temple. "Come," he said quietly.

**

The first golden pink of morning flared crisply along Mycroft's east lawn. _Focus,_ Sherlock thought, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He turned back to his mother.

"…couldn't find one, not anywhere, so it was almost an hour before I got back to him, but when I got there… he was gone, and I'm so _sorry_, John, I didn't _think…"_

"No, mother, you _didn't!"_ Sherlock barked, and she jumped and averted her gaze once again.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft and Sherlock's father barked in unison.

Her breath hiccupped. John gazed sightlessly across the room; Mycroft currently leaned on the wing of the Queen Anne chair housing their mother. _Well, what do they all expect? I only __left__ them here for the __security__, not because of Mycroft's wonderful parenting skills._ He sat glowering.

"It's all right," John uttered quietly.

He glanced up; John hadn't moved, but…

"Thank you, John," his mother said quietly, "I know they were meant to be watched – "

"Then why the _bloody_ hell did you _leave_ him unattended?" Sherlock growled, staring out the window.

"Sherlock," John said. Then to Mrs. Holmes, "it's not your fault." He rose and went to stare, hand on hip, out the window.

Sherlock sighed. "All right. You went in to feed him. He felt hot, but you couldn't tell if it was the room,"

"Yes. I'm fairly certain that's what it was, dear…"

_Patience. We don't have much time. No, wait. They won't harm him. They want him._ He glanced at John, who stood unmoving, by the window. "Go on," he said. "You thought he was hot."

"So I opened the window – it was just a crack, honestly – and went to find a thermometer. But I couldn't find one, not in this entire… _palace,_ Mycroft, not _anywhere…"_

"I'm not accustomed to housing infants, mother." Mycroft said condescendingly.

"Well. One of Mycroft's friends – "

"They're called 'servants,' mother."

"I raised you better than that, dear. But that's for another time. One of his friends went out and got one, and when I went back… he was gone."

John turned. "Where's Marie?"

"Safe," Mycroft said.

"With all due respect, Mycroft, your _bloody_ safety…" Sherlock said quietly.

"Just bring me to her, would you, Mycroft?" John said quietly.

"Of course," Mycroft replied, and led John from the room.

"What was he wearing?" Sherlock asked.

"A… a sailor outfit, I think."

_Mycroft… you're an idiot,_ he thought, shaking his head. "Did you get him fed?"

"No, he was too fussy; that's one reason I thought he might be sick."

"No," Sherlock sighed, "he's just… particular."

His mother smiled and looked briefly up at him. "You were as well," she said. "I had to be the one to start feeding you, or you wouldn't eat. Drove your father crazy. Sherlock… I really cannot say…"

"I know, mother."

"Sherlock… you and John, are you…?"

He met her eye as her words trailed off. "Are we what?"

"Never mind."

"Your mother and I only want you happy, Sherlock," his father said.

"Mm," he answered, "well, let's revisit that after we have my son back, shall we?"

His parents glanced at each other._ Yes. My son, all right? My son. And I want him back, so can we please just get on with it?_ He rose.

"Sherlock, you look exhausted," his mother said.

He nodded. "Difficult few weeks."

A head poked in. "A Miss Hooper has arrived."

Sherlock looked up. "Molly!"

A second head followed. "A gentleman from 'Viscount Manor,' sirs and madam."

Mycroft and John entered; John bore Marie, sleeping, in his arms. He came to sit by Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock glanced down; Marie lay in her pink bear-sleeper, with fists curled and pulled up by her cheeks.

"Well, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

_Indeed,_ he thought._ Always the one with the answers, aren't I?_

"Molly," John said, confidently but quietly.

Mycroft looked at both of them. He nodded, and soon a very anxious-appearing Molly Hooper was escorted in. "Sherlock… what's happened?"

"Sit down, Miss Cooper," Mycroft said.

"Hooper," Sherlock corrected over steepled fingers, staring at Marie.

"It's all right," she said, and went to sit across from John.

"Did you bring the records?" Sherlock asked, still not meeting her eye.

"Well… yes, but… Sherlock, everything that matters is on the electronic record."

"Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"Ours are already confidential," Mycroft said.

"Of course. But I need you to shut down access to _all_ of our records."

"Naturally," he said, and stepped over to his laptop.

"I don't understand," Molly said.

"One of the children has been kidnapped, Ms. Hooper," Sherlock's father said.

"Oh, my God… Oh, Sherlock, I'm so…"

"Don't say it," he said. "Is there any way to find out who has accessed those records?"

"Yes," she said, "it tracks every login, every patient, and every inquiry, but Sherlock, they were in the NICU – every single lab test drawn would've elicited a name."

"Still, that will give us a list," he said.

"I… I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I still don't understand. Why does it matter who got their records?"

The room went silent.

"The pregnancy wasn't… natural," John answered finally. "Mary had intrauterine implantation of four embryos at about the time we were married. She was investigating an organization…" he closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I can't."

Sherlock lifted his lips from his steepled fingers. "Mary was investigating an organization called 'Inertia,' with beliefs similar in some ways to the Nazis of the 1930's. They believe in genetic… perfection. _Intellectual_ perfection. Mary approached me some time before she met John and asked me to help her infiltrate the organization. I agreed; we entered as a 'couple,' and worked together for a time before she and John became engaged. Then it grew more tricky, but… we managed. We made it seem as though she were cheating on me – and I was using her. But then they became suspicious and made an attempt on John's life. Mary thought that perhaps if she were pregnant, it would buy her time, and I agreed, but she had to provide them with proof that she was carrying my child, and not John's."

Molly shook her head. "So you…"

"Wait. She was in love with John – not me. So she decided to roll the dice and let the proverbial chips fall where they may. They agreed to implant two of mine and two of John's… forgive me, John…"

"How did she get my…?" John asked. "You know. Without me knowing."

Sherlock stared at him. "Do you _really_ want the answer to that, John? Here? _Now?"_

_"I_ certainly do not," Mycroft said.

"You're a very heavy sleeper, John."

"And that is more than I need to know," Mycroft continued, staring pointedly at him.

"Right. Well. She had the implantation, and they placed four embryos – two of mine, and two of John's. When she was pregnant, of course, Inertia – the group we were trying to bring down – asked for proof of paternity. Aware that there could be – ramifications – should they not match, we ran a DNA compatibility test on two samples… But I switched the samples. With your unwitting assistance, Molly, for which I am eternally grateful… and profoundly… sorry." He dropped his face against his steepled fingers once more, ignoring the stares of everyone in the room.

"DNA compatibility samples?" John asked.

"Switched the samples?" Molly asked.

"Switched with whom?" his mother asked.

"Yes, to prove relationship, instead of paternity, between my DNA and the second sample – which they thankfully never questioned; and, yes, I switched the amnio DNA sample with someone else's."

_"Whose?"_ they all asked. All except…

"Mine," said Mycroft.

The room became very quiet.

"So… does _anyone_ know… you know. Whose father…?"

"No. We are both… both of theirs. But you see… if Oliver, genetically, is John's, and they find out…"

"Oh, God," John said. "They'll have no reason to keep him alive."

"Nope," said Sherlock, and he turned his gaze slowly up to John.

"I'll do what I can," Molly said, "but we're talking about hundreds of people."

"I know," he answered. "Thank you."

"Do you… need anything else?"

He shook his head.

"No, Miss Hooper. That will be all. Thank you," Mycroft said from his laptop.

She rose and moved to the door.

"And Molly…" Sherlock said into his fingers.

"Yes?"

"Don't forget the prenatal labs."

"I won't."

Marcus the Mountain then escorted in Felix of Viscount Manor – who turned out to be singularly unhelpful. All he really could say was that the man who had been beneath their window nearly all night had paid him fifteen quid for the privilege and, no, he'd never seen him before that, but he supposed he was probably a student. Sherlock and John and, to some extent Mycroft – and Greg Lestrade, who they had agreed by that point ought to be made aware – interviewed him at some length; but time was passing, Sherlock was exhausted, and Felix the idiot knew nothing. So they let him go.

"Sherlock," John said quietly.

"Yeah."

"You need to get some sleep."

Sherlock gave him a flat stare.

"Seriously, Sherlock, if your brain isn't functioning, Oliver… well."

_He has a point._

John rose and handed Marie to Sherlock's mother. Sherlock stamped on the urge to tear the infant free and shout something hurtful along the lines of _Have You Lost Your Bloody Mind?_

"Come on," John said, tugging on him.

"Wait, John. Crime scene."

"Christ," John muttered. "All right. Yeah. But then you get some sleep, all right?"

"We'll see." _Never. Never in a million years,_ he thought, following Mycroft to the room from which his son had been abducted a few hours earlier.


	10. Chapter Ten: And Off We Go

Chapter Ten: And Off We Go

_Our lives_

_Our love_

_Forevermore_

_One breath_

_One heart_

_Together_

"Five foot eight, well-groomed, short blond hair…" Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder at John from where he kneeled on the carpet, "_not_ the same gentleman who we followed to Cambridge, but still likely… mm…" he thought for a moment, "…yeah, still likely a student – graduate studies, though – which makes him most likely… again… from a family for which his university was a bit… of… a…" he rose, wobbled, and straightened. "…stretch." He squatted down, kneeled, pressed his palms into the carpet, and rubbed a few fibers through his finger and thumb. He brought his face down to sniff them – and landed on his cheek. "Licorice. Wet… licorice… something…"

"Sherlock…" John said, for what was probably the fiftieth time – and was ignored for what was _also_ probably the fiftieth time.

Sherlock stood, blinked slowly, and dragged his palms down along his face. "Given the balance of… of probabilities… Oxford, maybe, but… more likely Cambridge…"

Mycroft glanced at John.

"Sherlock," John said again.

Sherlock circled back to the window and started re-examining the sill.

Lestrade strode over. "Sherlock, you're being an idiot. You're repeating yourself and as long as there's the chance that you might say something _useful,_ I've got to stand here like a bloody trained _hound;_ but you haven't said anything new, you see, for at least the last what…" he looked at Mycroft.

"Eight minutes."

"Eight minutes, Sherlock. And that's eight minutes more that the animal with _John's son_ has on us. So unless you have something new to say, _shut up,_ get out of the way, and let us get _on_ with it!"

"How can I _possibly_ tell what I _might_ have to say if you _won't let me say it?"_ he stumbled over.

John closed the distance.

Sherlock swayed again, squeezed his eyes shut, took a couple of steps, and straightened. "I'm fine. Let me be."

"Yes, John," Mycroft said, " – do let him fall on his face next time; he'll be _so_ much more useful that way." Then, turning, "And _far_ more entertaining."

"Shut it, Mycroft," John replied. "Sherlock, you're making no sense any more. Come on. Let Greg take it from here. And…" he glanced up grudgingly. "…and Mycroft. Your parents can handle Marie."

Sherlock twitched his head. "John…"

He closed the distance and spoke very quietly. "A few hours, Sherlock. You can't do anyone any good… you can't do _Oliver_ any good, Sherlock, passed out here on the floor. Besides… you'll bollocks up the crime scene."

Sherlock's head twitched again, as if he were being bothered by a blackfly. "True."

"Come on." He pulled Sherlock's elbow, and finally, Sherlock let himself be led. John glanced up and met Mycroft's eye.

Mycroft nodded and slipped him a few capsules as he passed. "Start with two," he mouthed, and John nodded. And Mycroft pointed at him, and he rolled his eyes and nodded again.

They went to the room Mycroft set aside for John when he visited. John went and got changed, pulled the drapes, and fell onto the bed.

"We should leave," Sherlock said, pacing.

"You need to sleep," John said.

"Sleep? John, I can't sleep," he said, pacing back and forth like a great panther in a small cage. He looked at his watch. "It's been three hours and twenty two minutes – give or take – since your son…"

"Our son."

"Sorry?"

"Our son. Sit down. Better, lie down."

"Our son. Hmm... All I really need is some coffee."

John sighed heavily, rubbed his palms on his pajama pants, and rose. "Fine. Anything else?"

"No."

John turned to the door.

"And don't let Mycroft brew it, either."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He smiled as he walked out, returning a few minutes later with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Sherlock, then locked the door.

"I'll take the other, thanks," Sherlock said.

John shrugged. _Score one for you, Mycroft,_ he thought, handing the indicated cup to Sherlock. Then, once Sherlock saw him drinking and chugged his own brew, he voluntarily drank a full cup of drugged coffee. He started growing groggy shortly thereafter. _Here I go again…_

"You… drugged… me…." Sherlock said, affronted, a few moments later.

"Mm," John said agreeably, "Mycroft's idea. Which of you has the drug history?"

"John… _Oliver!"_ Sherlock complained.

"Yes. Don't you suppose…" he closed his eyes momentarily. "Don't you suppose… something. Oh. Yes. Don't you suppose Oliver needs you able to think?"

"But… John… if I can't _remember…"_

He shook his head. "Mycroft said… not to worry…" Pushing himself from the bed, he crossed to Sherlock's bag and pulled out his pajama pants. "No… memory… something."

"And you _trusted_ him?"

He crossed with the pants and thrust them at Sherlock, who tilted his head at him.

"Face it, Sherlock," he said, "you're gonna fall asleep. Now. Do you want to do it uncomfortably, in those? Or do you want to do it comfortably, with my help?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

_Damn. That came out wrong._

"Just take the bloody pants, Sherlock."

Sherlock rose, swayed, and dropped back onto the bed.

_All right. Fair's fair – one for one – he did it for me._ He met Sherlock's eye, and started tugging on his shoes. After a good deal of pushing and shoving, he managed to get Sherlock into his pajamas. Sherlock started muttering. "Drugged, John. They drugged him. They drugged Oliver."

John blinked.

"Your son, John. They drugged your son." Sherlock gazed at him with eyes that, for the first time that John could recall, spoke of… real pain. He laid his hands on Sherlock's knees, closed his eyes, and set his jaw, smothering the tongues of rage that flickered through him. He opened his eyes again, meeting the brilliant blue gaze that still sought his. He ran his palms up Sherlock's thighs, back, and over his shoulders, pulling him in close, sliding his cheek along Sherlock's. _"Our _son, Sherlock," he whispered, "how many times do I have to say it?"

"I failed him, John."

"Sherlock, lie down, love. You're exhausted." He folded down the covers, then pushed Sherlock's shoulder. "Don't fight me, love. I'm stronger than you are."

Sherlock slid down onto his side. "I failed you."

"Sherlock, stop, now. Stop. All right? Stop. This is life. And we're in it together. You, and me, and Marie, and Oliver. And your parents. We're all in it together. And…" he sighed, "I suppose Mycroft as well. So when something happens, you can't blame only yourself, just as you can't praise only yourself."

"I do, though."

"Yeah, but you shouldn't; and we just agreed – last night, remember? – that we weren't alone anymore."

"I said _you_ weren't alone anymore."

"God, you're thick. That _means,_ Sherlock, that _you_ aren't alone either."

Sherlock dropped his chin. "Sorry. Should I be keeping count?"

"Keeping… count?"

"Of the mistakes." He glanced quickly at John from beneath his brows.

"Don't be stupid." John walked around the bed and slid in next to Sherlock. Sherlock lay on his side resolutely facing the wall. "Turn over," John said.

"No."

"Sherlock… it wasn't your fault. Turn over."

"I'm sorry, John."

He laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Last night," he said quietly, "I slept without nightmares for the first time in months. I'd really love a repeat performance. Please turn over."

"No, you didn't," Sherlock replied, just as quietly. But he did turn over… though… he wouldn't…

"Look at me, Sherlock."

"I can't."

"What? Why not?"

Sherlock shook his head a little. "I just… can't."

John stroked his cheek. "We'll get Oliver back, Sherlock. Not you. Us. All of us. Together, for once. Do you know why?"

"Because Oliver needs us. I'm so tired, John."

"I know you are. And it's true, Sherlock, he does; but it's not what I meant. What I meant was; do you know why we'll do it together?"

"Because he's your son."

"He's our son, Sherlock. Say it."

"He's our son."

"Again."

Sherlock's gaze pierced John's heart. "He's. Our. Son," he said quietly, blinking.

"Yes. Sherlock, he _is_ our son. But that's still not what I meant. I meant _all _of us. You and me, Mycroft, your parents, and Greg and Molly."

"Who?"

"We'll do it together because we're a family, Sherlock, and that's what families do."

"Lestrade's not…"

John smiled.

"Friends, Sherlock, are the families we choose for ourselves."

"God, John, that's appalling," Sherlock whispered.

"Perhaps. True, though."

Sherlock lifted his arm, and John slid over beside him. "Go to sleep, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry, John."

"Sherlock. Stop. No more apologizing."

"I can't believe you let Mycroft…"

"Can't you?"

"Well." Sherlock blinked once… twice… and then his eyes drifted shut. "I suppose I…"

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

**

When John awoke, it was several hours into the afternoon, judging by the light knifing through the curtains. Sherlock's fingers still curled around him, and his breathing was deep and even. _Miraculous,_ he thought – then reconsidered. Mycroft would've chosen something – appropriate. _But… will he let us be? Mm. Well. I've no idea what's coming. I only know… now. And before. So I can only hope he… gives us now._

He kissed Sherlock gently.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he reached for John's face. "Oliver, John," he said after a moment.

"…has all of Scotland Yard and the entire British Secret Service out looking for him. I only have you."

Sherlock studied him.

"An hour, Sherlock."

"I thought you wanted to move slowly," Sherlock said quietly.

"That," John replied, brushing the backs of his fingers against Sherlock's jaw, "was before this – before." He traced Sherlock's brow. Sherlock swallowed. John combed his fingers through Sherlock's curls, pulling the hair gently and slowly along and watching the progress his fingertips made as they went. Sherlock was still watching him seriously.

"I want…" he started._ No, that isn't right. That isn't right, and I need to get this right, for both of us._ "I need you to make love to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes moved in John's, and John's heart stopped. _There, now. That's done it; I may as well pack my things…_

Sherlock nodded. "All right," he whispered, "but… I don't want to hurt you…"

John shook his head. "That's… me, either. I mean, I don't want to hurt you, either. That's not what I meant." His heart began beating once more, albeit erratically. "I don't ever want to hurt you."

Sherlock nodded again. "I do, you know."

John blinked. _And… no. I don't follow._ "You do… what…?"

Sherlock's eyes searched his, and there was, again, a flash of pain – there and gone in an instant. "Feel," he whispered.

"Oh." John pulled his fingers all the way through Sherlock's curls. "Oh, love. I _know._ I know that, Sherlock." He cradled Sherlock's neck. "You didn't think I doubted that?"

"Sometimes." Sherlock pulled John's forehead against his. "I wanted – _I_ needed – to make sure."

"Yeah, well, don't. Don't doubt that again, all right? Because I know. Sherlock? I know. I wouldn't be here otherwise. Hm?"

Sherlock nodded. Then, closing his eyes, he sighed, long and deeply, and pulled John to him, covering his head with his chin.

"Has that been worrying you?"

"Bit."

"God. Listen, Sherlock… _I_ make mistakes too. Lots of them. And I'm gonna keep right on making them, and you're _really _good at keeping things to yourself. So unless you agree to tell me when something's bothering you, there's a pretty good chance… I'll never know. And that's a good way for this not to work. And I'd sort of like this to work, Sherlock, so…"

"I'll try. But you know, John… my abilities curve. It's a bit – skewed."

"You know, Sherlock, if we spend the rest of the day apologizing for things we haven't even done yet…"

"Mm," Sherlock murmured, "the same thing's just occurred to me." His fingers were toying with the hair at the back of John's neck. "Perhaps we're both…"

"…nervous." John laid his head against Sherlock's chest, listening to him breathe. "You know, we don't have to…"

"Shh," Sherlock said. His chest was warm beneath John's cheek. _How is it that I'm a nervous wreck and he's rock-steady?_

John lifted his arm to hover uncertainly once more over Sherlock's waist. "Do you…?"

Sherlock's fingers closed over his wrist and pulled it around him. "You never need ask that again, John," he replied, and John nodded. He lay there, breathing Sherlock in – his warmth, his body – then pressed his cheek against Sherlock's chest, tightened his fingers over his waist, and closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock's arms close more securely over him. His breathing hitched, and he swallowed, sliding his arm and then his body up higher until his cheek lay once more by Sherlock's. And then he couldn't move. His heart pounded over Sherlock's; he slowed his breathing until it flowed easily with Sherlock's. And still, he couldn't move.

Sherlock's fingers began combing through his hair. "It's all right, John…" he whispered, his breath flowing warm over John's ear, and something in him relaxed a little. He pulled his arm from Sherlock's side and closed his fingers instead over his arm, stroking his thumb again and again over the muscle while Sherlock continued smoothing his hair.

"Just lie here," Sherlock whispered. "It's… it's still 'making love,' don't you see… it's just not _having sex_."

John's throat closed. "Jesus, Sherlock…" he whispered, "how is it possible that you are still alone after all this time?"

"You said it yourself, John. I'm not."

And then, he _really_ couldn't breathe, but he didn't have to, not really, because he – _John – _had ceased independent function. Really, it had happened, as he had told Sherlock, somewhere several years previously; but in that moment, when John realized that at last, _finally,_ Sherlock _understood…_ John stopped being, and something else took his place. John turned towards his voice, cherishing the slight abrasiveness of Sherlock's cheek against his before their lips met.

And, yes, they had kissed before.

And, yes, John had known they would kiss then.

But.

It was as if John were a virgin, for all the care and tenderness that Sherlock showed him that afternoon, and he _knew_ it would be like that as soon as Sherlock's lips found purchase. John had thought that he would be the one to be patient, to be kind – and he tried to be. But either he had _seriously_ underestimated Sherlock's previous experience, or Sherlock had spent a great deal of time in… theoretical research… or both.

Sherlock's lips pulled gently on his again. "Stop me, John… if…" he said, touching John's temple.

"No," John whispered. _God, the eyes, how did he end up with those eyes?_ "Nobody's stopping… anybody…" he said, and he was staring, just staring.

Sherlock smiled, and every hair on John stood on end, and Sherlock's eyes changed subtly as his fingers pulled him in, and John closed his eyes and let it happen. Sherlock kissed his upper lip, his lower lip, both together… slowly, tenderly, gently, until John sighed and clasped the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock moved a little, rolling them onto their sides. He tasted John's lip, just a bit, and John pressed himself against Sherlock, opening his mouth, trying to draw Sherlock in, but…

"Slowly," Sherlock whispered, his lips butterflying against John's. His tongue lightly traced John's lips again.

"Sherlock…" he said quietly, "we left 'slowly' behind… in Cambridge…" John's fingers slipped down Sherlock's arm and over his hip, pulling.

"All right," Sherlock replied, smiling and kissing him again, "granted; but we haven't left 'deliberate' behind, have we?" He nipped John's upper lip. "And perhaps slowly is called for just now…" he slipped his face along John's, whispering "because perhaps… we both shall…" he ran his fingers along John's arm, coming to interlace their hands together, "…_remember_ it better this way." He kissed John's ear tenderly, breathing warmly over it. A shiver ran through John, and Sherlock slid over him, pressing him gently into the mattress as he lay over John's side. He studied John seriously, his eyes traveling over John's face; his hair; his neck. They came back to settle on his eyes, and his look was almost grim as he said quietly, "we have this time, John – this _now,_ if you will – and I don't know when…" he closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. "I don't know when we'll have protected time like this again, so forgive me… but I don't want to rush it. Is… is that all right?" He touched John's eyelid, tracing the shape of it and coming down to touch John's lip.

He kissed it. "Of course, but I don't know how long Mycroft will let us be."

"Until we reappear. I made him promise."

"You…" _Don't ask, just appreciate._ He kissed Sherlock's finger again. "Why can't I do anything but stare at you?"

"Because we haven't been able to do that yet – actually, I spent a good amount of time doing just that last evening. Strange how…" he touched John's forehead again, "…now that I can look all I like, I can't seem to look…" he tilted his head, looking almost curious, "…away." Sherlock leaned in once more and kissed him, reaching to caress his jaws and opening his lips at last to nudge against John's. "I can't look away, and I can't stop saying your name, John."

_God, my breath… my heart…_ "Hm…"

Sherlock's tongue slid in beside his, caressing it quickly and then slipping out again.

"Hm… Sherlock…"

"Hush, now, listen to me, John," he whispered. "I've one more thing I want to say… are you listening?"

"Yeah." _Oh, yeah. I'm listening._

Sherlock laid quietly for a moment, just touching his hair.

"Sherlock?"

"That… thing you said. In Cambridge."

_The thing… I said…_ John's eyes darted around the room. "I'm sorry, Sherlock… I need more."

Sherlock kissed his temple. "That… all of me."

He spoke so quietly that it took John several seconds to work out what he had said.

"All the me that you found annoying…"

_Ah._ "All right, Sherlock, yes; I'm with you, now." Sherlock took a deep breath, and John felt it in his belly. Lower. "Sherlock… you don't have to…"

"Yes, I do. I told you, John – I don't know when we'll have time like this again, and… and it _isn't_ just sex. Not… not for me. And I think… not for you."

"No."

"So before…" Sherlock hesitated and kissed his ear, pulling on the lobe a bit with his lips. "Before I _make_ love to you…" he nuzzled him, "John, are you listening?"

"Yes, love."

"Before I make love to you, John – I need you to know… I need to tell you… that I love you."

The words shot through him. _Oh my God… my God,_ "…my God," he whispered, not realizing he had spoken.

"What? Not… should I not have…? Because I don't… do this…"

"I know."

Sherlock nodded. Then he kissed the soft flesh beneath John's ear, softly, and his fingers were stroking John's ribs, and his breathing… was John's breathing. John found Sherlock's waist again and held it; he held his hand there, keeping himself steady as Sherlock laid a trail of fire along his jugular and down over his throat, and he couldn't help it, his knee slid up along Sherlock's, stroking, rubbing, _asking,_ and Sherlock returned finally to his mouth, and he moaned.

_I don't… I never… oh, God, Sherlock… was that really me… are you doing this to me…_ "I… Sherlock, you… hm…" and suddenly, he was holding on for dear life as everything in him – _everything – _sparked from ember to flame. So he clutched Sherlock's waist, his hip, his side – whatever he could hold – and opened himself to feel as Sherlock's tongue caressed his in long, delicate strokes, his eyes dancing over John as if there were something _special_ about him, as if he _mattered_…

"I can't get enough, John," Sherlock said hoarsely, sliding his fingers once more over his neck and diving in to settle another series of silken kisses over his lips. "How… mm… how can I… move on… nng… if I cannot stop… oh, God… kissing you?"

"I…" John tried, but the breath caught in his throat. "Don't. Don't stop."

Sherlock drew John's tongue in with his, and they were suckling, and John opened his eyes, and he let himself hear, and he almost couldn't bear it. His fingers were pressing into Sherlock's waist. _I'm sorry, love – I don't want to bruise you… but if I let go… I shall surely fall._

Sherlock pulled back. He laid his own hand over John's and stared at him. He interlaced their fingers and gently removed John's hand from his waist. Eyes never leaving John's, he placed their palms over his own chest – and just held them there, waiting, watching John. _Understand,_ his eyes said. _Please understand, because I cannot say it._

John gently pulled his fingers free and sat up a little. In a single smooth motion, he removed his T-shirt. He meshed their fingers once more and laid them over his heart, watching Sherlock, who nodded. "Come here," John whispered.

"No," Sherlock replied. "This moment, John." And Sherlock's eyes traveled over him, taking him in. _This should make me wildly uncomfortable,_ he thought; yet, just then – it didn't.

He sat up and began unbuttoning Sherlock's pajama top, and Sherlock's fingers closed over his wrist, and he understood. _Slowly. Please. For me._ He thumbed Sherlock's collarbone, thrilling in the surge he felt shock through him, and then echo through himself. "How is it, Sherlock," he whispered, "that I've lived with you and worked with you for years – but it's only now that I realize that I wasn't actually _alive_ before?"

"I don't know, John," Sherlock whispered, "but I never really cared about anyone else… until recently… it cost too much. But now, I can't stop. I don't give a damn about anyone else… there's only you and Oliver and Marie, and these damn… feelings. Your feelings, John… they aren't yours, do you see? They're mine." His long fingers trailed over John's chest, slowing each time that they passed over his heart.

"Well," John slipped Sherlock's pajama top from his shoulders, "I'd apologize, but… I'm not bloody sorry, Sherlock." His fingers traced the bullet scar in Sherlock's chest as their eyes locked. Sherlock stroked his fingers and pulled them around his ribs. "I love you," he continued, "and I can say it now, and I can touch you now, I can hold you now, and if it means that it hurts a little bit, then that's too… it's just too damn _bad,_ Sherlock."

And then Sherlock's mouth closed over his, and he was pressing John once more into the mattress, and John was clasping him, thumbing his nipple, stroking his ribs, and arching back and away as Sherlock's mouth kissed his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his palms. And then… slowly… 'slowly' became forgotten as John – almost always nearly silent – heard himself making sounds he'd never made before, sounds that grew in desperation as Sherlock's murmuring, his fingers, and his kisses composed a symphony that built… and built… and built.

"Sherlock…" he groaned, curling up sideways, his hip pressing into Sherlock's, "I need…"

"Hush, John… feel with me…" Sherlock answered, his warm fingers sliding at last beneath John's waistband.

"Hmm… I _am_ feeling… and if I feel much more…"

"Look at me, John."

He tried to slow his breathing… he _tried…_

"John."

"Hm." _Yes. You. I see you. I'm with you. I am you._

"With me, John. Listen… to us…"

"I _am…"_

"Watch my eyes. Taste my mouth, John…"

"Hm…" a wave passed through him.

"Feel my weight on you… my hands on you…"

"I _am,_ God, Sherlock…"

"Hush… and feel with me, John. Together."

_When… did my pants come off? Oh, God. Oh, my God._ Sherlock was kissing him again, slowly, and he would have _cried_ had not he been too busy. _He's so warm, so incredibly warm._ He arched up, pressing his pelvis into Sherlock, who slipped a palm beneath him and held him there. And Sherlock began rolling, moving and kissing John in fluid motions, until John could take no more and pulled his mouth free. "Please…"

And Sherlock was watching him, studying him, and he didn't care, he was feeling Sherlock's arousal sliding with a slow determination by his own, slick and satin, and it was too much. He groaned, clasping Sherlock's buttock with desperation. And at last cracks began to show in Sherlock's veneer of composure: his breathing grew ragged; he started closing his eyes; his rhythm became more pressured – and John felt his fingers close about them both, and his breath hitched deeply. He turned his head, seeking Sherlock's mouth once more, but felt Sherlock's breath over his ear whisper, _"Together,"_ and then Sherlock drew his tongue in with his own and began to thrust and to pulse his palm around them with his rolling movements. John quickly ran his arm about Sherlock's waist, seeking desperately to anchor himself as he drowned in his own climax. He thrust – and stilled, and thrust… and held, as Sherlock held his breath and stopped moving, his arousal pulsing between them as his own release hit him. He pulled back from kissing John to whisper his name, then relaxed John back into the mattress.

John lay holding Sherlock to him, panting, unwilling to let go, wishing that his breathing _wouldn't _normalize, that his heart rate _wouldn't_ drop once more.

After several minutes, Sherlock slid from him and lay beside him, silently stroking his hair.

"Sherlock," John said quietly.

"Mm."

"My God."

"Hm?"

"My God, Sherlock." John glanced over to where Sherlock lay, curls asunder, arm outstretched, strangely much less serious – and smiled. And Sherlock smiled back.

They lay there until the room lay in full gloaming and they couldn't really pretend any more that they were still asleep. And then Sherlock sighed, and John said, "Yeah," and they got up.


	11. Chapter Eleven: Cambridge to Cambridge

Chapter Eleven: Cambridge to Cambridge

"He calls himself 'Isaac,' and he heads the Cambridge chapter of Mensa," Mycroft continued as Sherlock thumbed through the file. The three of them sat in Mycroft's office as Mycroft briefed them on what had been discovered while they slept.

_Isaac,_ Sherlock thought. _I should've let Mary kill you. But, no; I wanted to be smart about it._

"Mensa?" John asked. "Isn't that the high-IQ organization?"

"One of many, yes," Mycroft replied. "However, most Mensa chapters aren't involved in Isaac's – shall we call them 'extracurricular activities?'"

"I don't follow," John said.

"He's also the head of Inertia in England," Sherlock muttered. "He was Mary's ultimate target."

"And… now he has Oliver," John said, his one crossed leg bouncing over his knee.

"It would seem so," Mycroft said quietly.

"What's his last name?"

"He goes by 'Wenton,' but has many aliases."

"'Wenton?'" John asked, tilting his head. "'Isaac Wenton.' Really? And no one called him on it."

"I imagine many have 'called him on it.' But he's powerful; he's wealthy: and he fancies himself a genius. I'm fairly certain that he could call himself Moses and get away with it if he liked. As it is, they simply chalk it up to…" he glanced at Sherlock, "…idiosyncrasy. Or coincidence. Amusing how often people are willing to believe absurdities and attribute them to… coincidence. In any case, he's been quite the busy bee… Oliver, it seems, isn't the first child to slip under Isaac's influence. No, actually; in this last year, there have been four similar abductions in England alone which, upon reflection, are likely all to be related to Isaac's network; there is another likely in Wales. It was simply his poor judgment to have chosen Oliver this time round – and now, it will cost him."

John's face was tight. "And what about all those other families, Mycroft? What about them? Who's working on those cases?" he asked.

"Well, we are, of course. Now."

"Jesus."

"Have you made contact?" Sherlock asked.

"After a fashion."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock replied sharply.

"_He_ did."

"_And?"_

"He's demanding proof of paternity."

"Well, we can provide that easily enough," Sherlock answered, looking again through the documents. _Influences in banking; stocks; gene research – no surprises there; pharmaceuticals; hospital… administration?... hm…; and physics. Of course. Well-respected professor of physics._

"He wants a blood sample, Sherlock."

_Ah. _He met Mycroft's eye. _Well, that does make it a bit more challenging. Insurmountable? Hm._ "Have – " he glanced at John and cleared his throat.

"Just say it, Sherlock," John said quietly. "Whatever it is, I've probably thought it already."

_Mm… not necessarily, no. But._ "Have you requested proof of life?"

John closed his eyes.

"I have," Mycroft replied, and Sherlock was _fairly_ sure that John didn't catch the very slight hesitation in his voice. Mycroft's eyes shifted to John.

"Let me see."

Mycroft sighed and turned his laptop around to face them. With a few clicks, he brought up a video of a blurred figure feeding a baby. The video closed in on the infant's face, and it was clearly Oliver, who was just as clearly fussy. John made a noise, and Sherlock glanced over; his jaw was clamped and he was somewhat more pale than usual. Sherlock focused again on the video. A newspaper slid into view showing the current date. Then the clip ended. Sherlock met Mycroft's eye as John turned away.

"What will they do if they don't get the sample?" Sherlock asked quietly._ And… why did you lie? For me, or for him, or both?_

Mycroft straightened a bit in his chair. His head tilted, and he folded his hands.

"All right," Sherlock replied, "How will they know it's from me?"

"They are sending someone to take the sample."

"Mycroft..." John said quietly, "_is_ Oliver Sher..."

"I don't know," he interrupted, "I never checked."

_Sympathy, Mycroft? Aren't you well?_

"Didn't think it relevant," Mycroft ended quietly.

"And neither do I," Sherlock replied, "except."

"Mm. Yes. Except," Mycroft agreed.

"Where's Marie?" John asked.

"With my father, under strict orders not to let her from his sight."

_Mm_, Sherlock thought, riffling through the file – but his mind wasn't on the papers before him; he'd long ago seen all he needed to, and kept it before him simply to allow himself somewhere to stare while he thought. _Video... He took that video and sent it._.. He pulled out his phone, confirming his suspicion. _I didn't look closely at the time, of course I didn't, but_... "What does the security footage show?" he asked.

There was an awkward silence.

He looked up at his brother. "Mycroft? What does the footage of Oliver's room show?"

"The camera had been found to be faulty earlier in the day and was taken down to be exchanged; the exchange hadn't yet been made. No one made me aware."

"Jesus Christ!" John expelled.

_Yes, of course, it's coming together, now._.. "And the heating is controlled room by room..."

"Yes."

"John," he said quietly, staring at Mycroft, "why don't you go see to Marie?"

"But…" John looked sharply at him.

He turned to John. _Understand, John – it isn't you, but I have to get to the bottom of this, and quickly._

"Right," John said, glancing at Mycroft, who was now staring back at Sherlock, "I'll just… right." He rubbed his hands on his jeans and stood, turning briefly back to Mycroft.

"The sitting room to your left, where we were this morning," Mycroft said quietly.

The door snicked behind John.

"Why did you lie?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"You know him better than I do," Mycroft answered, rising smoothly and turning to a serviette on the side. He poured a cognac for each of them and returned to his desk.

"No, thanks; strangely, I feel a bit _sluggish,"_ Sherlock said tetchily.

"No, you don't," Mycroft contradicted, "you've felt fine for hours. Drink."

"I hate it when you do that," Sherlock said, turning the glass in his hand. "And if you think I'm drinking anything you give me…"

"I'm not drugging you, Sherlock, relax."

_"Relax? _Damn, it, Mycroft!" He slammed the glass on the desk, spilling some of the cognac.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft sat back. "What's gotten into you?"

"I'll tell you what's gotten into me, Mycroft," he hissed, leaning forward, "someone has taken my _son,_ and you know something about it, more than you're telling me, and I've just about had it, Mycroft, I really have. So either you tell me what you know right _now,_ or…"

"Or what, Sherlock? You need me this time. So calm down and listen to me."

"You know what, Mycroft? I don't actually need to. Either he's already dead, or Isaac no longer has him. All I really need you to tell me is which one it is, and I'll be out of your hair, because I have somewhere else I need to be. And you can stop lying in front of John, because I'm only going to go straight out there and tell him…"

"No, you're not."

"Yes, Mycroft, I am."

"No, Sherlock, you're not. I have agents out looking for Isaac right now, both here and…"

"And where, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Mycroft!"

"The States."

_"The States!_ Jesus, Mycroft!" He flew from his chair, which spun behind him.

"Yes. Sherlock… Oliver's gone."

"Gone… gone… of _course_ he's gone. _Damn_ it, I _knew_ I shouldn't…" he stood staring at a van Dyck painting, with a prototypical knight in shining armor, sword point at the villain's throat. "And you were going to have my blood drawn, and then what, Mycroft?" He turned.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry…"

"Where in the States?"

"Good Lord, you aren't thinking of _going…?"_

"Of _course_ I'm going, you bloody idiot, now are you going to help me or not?"

Mycroft tilted his head.

Sherlock turned back to the painting, thinking. _Ah. Yes. Where else. How poetic. How… bloody… poetic._ "So. Are you going to get me to Cambridge, then? Or should I make my own reservations?"

"I'll get you there. But… Sherlock…"

"Listen, Mycroft, all I need you to do is find…" he strode over to Mycroft's desk, pulled forth a pad of paper and, leaning over, yanked Mycroft's pen from his breast pocket, "…this…" he scribbled on the pad, "…man." He thrust the pad back to Mycroft. "Do you think you can manage that? Because he's the one who took my son, and, while we're at it, _broke into your house,_ Mycroft, which, at the very least, you ought to care about." He turned to the door. "Oh. And one last thing. You've someone on your staff, someone close to you, on Inertia's payroll."

"What?" Mycroft scanned the pad. "What? Sherlock… _Absinthe, Sherlock?"_

"Yes, Mycroft… have Molly test the carpet fibers for wormwood… they drugged Oliver with Absinthe, or tried, in any case." _Come on, brother. You're faster than this._ He started gesticulating. "Someone on your staff… don't make me figure this out for you, Mycroft, it's obvious… disabled your camera, then turned up the temperature in the room – possibly also overbundling Oliver – so that mum would open the window, thus shifting the burden of guilt. Off she went looking for a thermometer, and in comes our abductor, simple as you please. He picks up Oliver, but finds him difficult to quiet, and puts a drugged pacifier in his mouth. Only, Mycroft, he chose an unfortunate substance. Yes, it's legal, but there are very few stores in the area that carry it, and I would venture to guess, even fewer in Cambridge. It's something only a curious, educated young person – possibly one who is trying to prove something – is likely to purchase. Otherwise, it's an eccentric old person; and which of the two do you believe we have here? So you're searching for a Cambridge student who meets these physical specifications – _with an Absinthe habit, Mycroft, how many do you suppose there are?_ Now get me my flight and get out of my way." He whipped the door open with sufficient force that it bounced against the jamb, and strode down the hall.

"Come on, John, get your things, we're leaving."

"But… the blood sample?" John rose quickly and turned to give Marie to Sherlock's mother.

"Bring Marie," he said, slapping the wall lightly and striding confidently towards their room.

"Sherlock… _Sherlock, wait!"_ John cried from behind him.

"Oh, what _now?"_ he snarled.

John flinched.

He sighed. _Damn. I really __should__ be keeping count._ "Sorry, John. I… Mycroft."

John was examining the carpet, cradling Marie in one arm. "Where are we going?"

"Cambridge."

"But we've just _come_ from Cambridge. Though, right, yeah, okay… why, is that where they've got Oliver?"

_I don't know how to do this, so I'll just say it._ "Not… that Cambridge."

"Not that Cambridge? What do you mean? You don't… you don't mean _America?_ Sherlock…"

"Yes, of course, I mean America. Oliver… he isn't _here_ any more."

John shifted his weight. He slumped back against the wall.

_What? What am I missing? I'm missing something, and we don't have time._ He turned and started back for their room. He began throwing things into his case; then filled John's.

"You will… explain, I hope."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, we can't take Marie after this lunatic – it's too risky."

"It's too risky leaving her here."

"Then I'll stay here with her."

Sherlock froze, staring at John. _You'll… what? You… I can't do this without you, you know that. Was that a joke? John, I don't understand. I don't understand, and there isn't __time__!_ "Fine. We leave her here." He snapped the cases shut and turned on one heel to pick up his coat.

"No. I'll come."

Sherlock twisted abruptly back toward the doorway. His mother stood there – she was initially slouching, but she straightened as he stared at her. She met his eye steadily and said, "you don't want to leave her here; I understand that. Let me come. I can watch her while you… do whatever you're going to do."

"No," he said, shrugging into his coat. He crossed to John and took Marie, then left the room.

John followed, suitcases in hand. "Sherlock… she has a point."

"No." _Come on, John, think. We're crossing the bloody ocean after one infant because this woman forgot that they were endangered, and you want to leave the other with her? Has Mycroft got someone canvassing the liquor shops yet?_ _Worked out the mole on his staff?_

Mycroft approached from the other direction, extending an envelope. "Marie's documents."

"Thank you."

"Sherlock…" John said.

_So was it to another Inertia member, or something more… malicious? And is he alive? He wouldn't go to the effort of crossing the ocean with him if he didn't mean to keep him alive. But then, why doctor the video?_

"Sherlock!" John grabbed his shoulder.

_"What?!"_

"Sherlock, we can't get the job done carrying an infant around Boston. So either leave me here, or we bring your mother, and there's an end to it," he hissed.

"You'd do that. You'd just… let me go."

"If it meant keeping Marie safe? Absolutely."

Sherlock worked his jaw, then leaned in to John's ear. "You _know_ I can't do this without you."

"Then bring your mother."

"John, she…" he straightened and met John's eye. "Fine." He handed Marie to his mother. "Fine. Can we just… _go_ now?"He glanced at Mycroft. "And I'll need everything you have on Inertia for the flight."

_'People have died,'_ Moriarty had said. And then came the reply that had never, not once since then, been more than a few minutes from his mind – _"That's what people __DO__!"_

The green light on the wing tip glowed steadily through the blackness of the crystalline early spring night. Stars shone brilliantly overhead; John sat opposite him, holding a glass of Scotch, while Sherlock's mother walked a persistently fussy Marie in the aisle. The infant had started crying before the plane had left the ground, and had been difficult to soothe since._ Irritability secondary to poor equalization of pressure on either side of the tympanic membrane resulting in displacement and discomfort…_

"We should've stopped to buy acetaminophen," John muttered.

Sherlock glanced at him. _Knuckles blanched, lips pursed, knees crossed, willing to peer out the window, had no difficulty with takeoff – still angry with me, then._ He returned his gaze to the window. _So will he still be in Boston, then, or will Isaac have arranged to…_

"How did you know?"

He glanced back at John. "Know… what?"

"That Oliver was gone."

"The video."

"The video?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone, thumbed through a few pages, and then handed it to John.

"This… is the video Mycroft sent us last night."

"Yes. Hand me your phone."

John handed over his phone. "I thought you weren't supposed to use phones on planes?"

"The signal isn't strong enough, certainly from only two phones, to do any damage, and it really is only relevant during takeoff and landing in any case." He brought up the video that the kidnappers had sent and handed it also to John.

John watched the video. "And… Sherlock…"

"It's Mycroft, John. They've altered the background – watch Oliver's motion."

John was silent for several moments, inspecting both videos side-by-side.

"It's Mycroft dancing with Oliver," Sherlock repeated.

_'That's what people __DO__!'_ he heard again. "This is _you,_ isn't it?" he murmured.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, looking up from the phones.

_They aren't 'people.' They're my…_

"Sherlock?"

"…family."

"Yes. Family. But… all right. I still don't know, though, how you know that he's gone." John looked at his feet, and then back at Sherlock. "And not… not dead."

"Because they think he's mine. And Mary's. He's worth too much. But they've sent no ransom note, so they don't…"

"Want money."

"Not from us. In any case, they don't intend to return him to us – not under any circumstances – so it makes little difference to them whether we believe him living or dead. And it goes against everything that we know about them to kill him, unless they believe him to be worthless to them, in which case, they would first have made efforts to obtain Marie."

"So they know…" John took a swallow of his Scotch. "So, then, Oliver _is_ your son."

"We don't know, John. I made it clear very early on that neither Mary nor I wanted to know, and apparently Mycroft felt the same. Or at least, he wants us to believe that he felt the same. In any case, they still believe the genetic information that they first received, which is fortunate, and which showed a male genetically compatible with me. It is probably why they chose Oliver and not Marie."

"Then… what have they done with him?"

"Nothing, yet." Sherlock glanced at his watch. "If they've even landed in Boston, they'll have to go through customs. And then…"

"Then?"

_Do you really want me to say this, John?_

The silence stretched. Marie fussed.

"Sherlock, does she usually take a pacifier?"

He glanced up at his mother. "Doesn't usually need one; that's Oliver."

John pulled the diaper bag from beneath his seat and started rooting through it. He pulled a new pacifier free and handed it to Sherlock's mother. "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes."

"John," she said quietly, taking the pacifier, "I think we can dispense with that. Just call me mum."

"Mum." He smiled, and she turned, offering the pacifier to Marie.

"Sherlock, after they land?" John pressed, returning to the previous subject.

_'That's what people __DO__!'_ Sherlock pressed his fingers together and tilted his lips against them, trying to file Moriarty away once again.

"Sherlock."

"They'll put him up for adoption."

John sat for a moment, replaying the video of Mycroft with Oliver over and over. Then he said quietly, "You mean they'll sell him."

"Yes."

I'm in the middle of something associated - found out that my "platform" wants building. Therefore... that's what I'm doing today. HOWEVER. There is a bit of ch 12 on the FB page. Julia C Hoover. ( JuliaCHoover)

The rest will be up ASAP, promise, once I get all these ridiculous extras in place.

Lovingly,  
-A


	12. Chap 12: Starting Over Again Over Again

Chapter Twelve: Starting Over Again Over Again

They had landed at Boston's Logan Airport and checked into a hotel close to Harvard Square, securing adjacent rooms for Mrs. Holmes and Sherlock, John, and Marie. After admonishing his mother – repeatedly – neither to leave the room nor to admit anyone, Sherlock had pulled John, both literally and figuratively, out into greater Boston. _Widener library… package stores… the T… _

"Was that really necessary?" John asked as they pushed through the hotel's glass doors.

_Mm… Probably should make a stop at Boston General… how long will it take to set up a contact network?... Bank. Need to have Mycroft wire some funds…_

"Sherlock."

"What?"_ Bank first. No, Mycroft first._ He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed Mycroft's contact. "Mycroft."

"Sherlock, I _do_ have other business…" Mycroft said on the other end of the phone.

"No you don't. Listen, Mycroft, I need you to wire… mm… ten thousand pounds ought to do it. For now."

_"Ten thousand pounds!"_

"More or less, yes. For a start. I'll text you the routing and account information, thanks." He hung up and turned to John. "What were you saying?"

"Only that it probably wasn't necessary to tell your mother not to act like a moron, Sherlock."

"Mm. Possibly you're right – she might know already…"

"Sherlock!"

_"What?"_ He stopped. _Three hundred feet. Less. We are less than three hundred feet from the hotel._

"Listen, Sherlock," John hissed, "I know you're upset with her – "

"Upset with whom?"

"Your mother. That's why you're being such a – "

He tilted his head.

John hesitated.

"Such a…?"

John sighed. "Well, you're being a bloody…" he sighed again. "You've been sort of unpleasant to be around ever since…" his words trailed off, and he turned his head.

"Well, maybe, John, that's because someone has _your son."_

"Our son, Sherlock; _he's our son!"_

"Damn queers," someone muttered, shoving by them. Sherlock turned, frowning._ Late teens, early twenties, poorly educated but wishes to gain more, has more money than he pretends…_

"Forget about him, Sherlock."

"Ignorant sod," he murmured.

"Yes, he is, but he doesn't matter. Listen. I know you're upset – "

"Upset? I'm not upset. I just want to find him, John, and we're wasting time."

"All right. Fine. Have it your way. What do we do first?"

"Bank. We have to go to the bank; Mycroft is wiring me enough money to establish, I hope, a reasonable information network here within the next few days."

"A homeless network?"

Sherlock bobbed his head. "Mm… partially. Also street performers, shop owners, lab techs… pharmacists… various… informants. It's different here, John… we don't know the place, and we don't have much time. It's a mercenary network. More expensive, less reliable, but it's what I've got. Come on."

It took a few hours and substantial legwork, but Sherlock was able to set up a fairly reliable informatics trap that he thought ought to get him what he needed within twenty-four hours or so. Then they went to Harvard's Widener Library.

"What are we researching, Sherlock? Chemical makeup of Absinthe? The Inertia group in America?"

"Nope… nothing so… complicated… as…. that…." Sherlock said, thumbing through a pile of magazines. Finding what he sought, he grinned and said, "Aha."

"Harvard Magazine? Do you really think that what we need is going to be in there?"

"Oh, John… all sorts of things are buried in these rags. Look." Sherlock thumbed through to the back, where personal ads of the most arrogant sort were run. One stated, "Forty-something female financier, enjoys pearls, fine wines, and art museum tours; seeking discerning self-sufficient male in fifties with advanced degree and good pedigree for occasional concerts and possible future agreements." He ran his finger down the page and stopped at an ad for _' ; your solution for intelligent adoptions.'_ "Take that phone number and information down, John," Sherlock said, scanning the page further. He stopped a bit down the page and said, "Never mind. Wait." John paused, and, glancing up to ensure that no one was looking, Sherlock tore the page from the magazine, folded it up, and put it in his pocket. Then he returned it to his pocket and put the magazine away. "Let's go."

Their next stop was Boston General Hospital, where Sherlock sought out a technician by the name of 'Leonard,' whom Molly had recommended. Sherlock introduced himself and John and gave Leonard a small bribe of the sea-salt caramels that Molly had mentioned that he enjoyed. And with that, they headed back to the hotel to get online and wait to hear from Sherlock's network.

By then, it was nearly evening, and they had been up for almost 24 hours. Both were getting tired and peckish. "Paella?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"I have a friend who makes a great Paella up a few blocks. Runs a hole in the wall restaurant."

"Of course you do."

So they spent the early evening eating paella over the muzzy feeling that comes with sheer exhaustion. Sherlock pulled out the paper from the magazine and spread it out on the table, examining it.

"It's too bad, really, that we can't properly enjoy this," Sherlock said, finishing off his glass of Pignot Grigio. _Timing wise, we check out these two adoption agencies, perhaps the sperm bank and egg-donor bank, then talk with this desperate mother, that shouldn't take more than a couple of hours tomorrow…_

"Yeah. Next time we come to Boston, we'll have to plan not to have a baby kidnapped," John agreed. One of the waiters threw him a funny stare as he walked by.

"Well, once we've got Oliver back, perhaps…"

"Mm. I'm still waiting for that apology, you know."

"Apology? What apology?"

"Sherlock, you've been a bloody ass all day, and all day yesterday!"

"Well. Not _all_ day yesterday," Sherlock replied quietly, pouring another glass of wine. He glanced at John. _Still irritated. Mm. All day. Ought I to fix it at this point? Going back to hotel after this, unlikely more information today…_ "John, I've been focusing on getting as much information as I could about Oliver as quickly as possible, and if that's made me a bit – "

"Annoying as hell, yeah…"

"I was going to say terse, but as you like. In any case, perhaps you can understand why."

"Honestly, Sherlock, I don't mind so much for me – I understand. But your mum –"

"Is the reason Oliver's gone."

"Sherlock," John said, leaning across the small table, "you don't really believe that...?" He studied Sherlock for a moment. "Sherlock, this is down to Isaac and Inertia. Not your mother."

"So tomorrow, I thought we'd –"

"Sherlock."

"John, she knew why they were there..."

"Yes, and they were there because it was Mycroft's house, Sherlock, and they were under guard."

"Mm."

"There was no way she could've known."

"All right."

"What?"

"All right. Now. Tomorrow –"

"You'll forgive her."

"John…"

"Fine, then. You'll treat her decently."

Sherlock glanced up at John.

_Bling!_

He pulled his phone towards him._ Genesearch CEO Marcus Silvers, Framingham, MA; Boston University alumnus; current traffic violations; remote marijuana; otherwise clean. Smart Baby CEO Michael Prince; Harvard alumnus; Irwin House Father; no legal issues._

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" he asked. Then, looking up, "Tomorrow's schedule. Fancy a tour of the local universities?"

"I… suppose…"

He turned the phone towards John.

"Sherlock? Sherlock _Holmes?" _Sherlock turned his head. _Oh, God. I thought he had moved._

A clean-cut blond man of modest height navigated the area between the small tables. He wore a brown field-coat with olive turned down collar, and had wire-rimmed glasses over green eyes. Sherlock rose. "Adam," he said quietly, extending his hand.

Adam's hand closed over it.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly.

"What on earth are you doing in Cambridge? Shouldn't you be tearing apart the clues of London, exposing its soft underbelly?"

"Sherlock?" John asked.

_God, this is awkward._ "Ah. John, this is an old friend – Adam Emerson." He was almost certain that John missed the hesitation this time as well – until he met John's eye. Aware that he was still holding Adam's hand, he pulled free. "Adam, this…" he looked back at John. _What do you want me to do, John? I don't know what you –"_

"John Watson," John said confidently, turning from Sherlock and rising.

Adam's head tilted, his eyes narrowing in evaluation. _It… has been a very long time since last I saw that. And – yes. There was a reason. _"Well. Good seeing you, Adam," he said, and sat down.

John smiled uncertainly, arm still half-extended, and Adam chuckled and pulled a chair from a nearby table. "Not using this, are you? Thank you," he said to the couple sitting there.

"Actually, we –" John said.

Sherlock cast a glare at Adam. "Yes, Adam, as a matter of fact, I _do_ live in London, but I'm here on rather _personal_ business, so if you don't mind…"

"Come, now, Sherlock," Adam laughed. "We both know…"

Sherlock tilted his head very slowly. _You arrogant…_ "Here on a kidnapping, Adam."

_"Really!"_ Adam said, gesturing for a waiter to come. The waiter arrived and extended a menu to Adam. "Do tell."

_Fine, Adam. You want to play? _"Yes, Adam, our son has been kidnapped, and we're absolutely exhausted, we've been running all over England and now Cambridge looking for him."

The waiter's eyes were huge.

"Are…" Adam's face was quickly losing its lurid grin. "…are you serious?"

_"Sherlock!"_ John hissed.

Sherlock whipped out his wallet and counted out several bills. He slapped them onto the table. "Yes, Adam, I am. John, I'm tired, I'd like to go now," he said curtly, and rose.

John clutched his coat as Sherlock pushed his way to the exit, but he had to pass Adam on the way out, and Adam grabbed his shirt. "Wait," Adam said quietly. He pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled a phone number on a napkin, then thrust it into John's hand. "Give this to him, would you?"

John blinked. "Ye… Yeah. I guess. Yeah. Look, I have…"

"Of course. Go," Adam said, and John trotted out after Sherlock onto the pavement.


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Who Was That Again?

Chapter Thirteen: Who Was That, Again?

_What the hell just happened?_

John fingered the napkin that Adam had pulled from beneath his unused wine glass uneasily as he trotted behind Sherlock through the early spring evening. It was chilly, and clouds were gathering. Sherlock headed quickly around a corner and plowed down several narrow alleyways, emerging in a large plaza only to plunge down into a T station.

"Sherlock, what the _hell…"_

_ "Quiet,_ John!" Sherlock hissed as he plummeted down the stairs.

_But we __passed__ another T station, and I thought we were going back to the hotel in any case?..._

Sherlock continued along through the station, thrusting his pass into the gate and proceeding quickly along past the passengers waiting for the next train, only to duck into the exit hallway, where he stopped among a group of teenagers.

_"Sherlock…."_

Sherlock waved him down and pulled out his phone. He punched in a quick text, and thrust it back into his pocket, then stood, quietly waiting, staring up and down the platform.

On further inspection, John noticed that the station had multiple entrances and exits, as well as what appeared to be connections to other train and coach lines. After a few moments, John heard the low vibration of Sherlock's phone when set to vibrate. Sherlock pulled it out, and his face darkened. He slipped it back into his pocket and resumed his vigil. After perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed, Sherlock appeared to relax a bit. He slid around onto the main platform, and they boarded the next train.

_"Now_ do you want to explain?"

Sherlock's eyes darted to him. "We've met," he said curtly.

"Well, yeah, Sherlock, I figured that, funnily enough."

Sherlock was quiet until the train stopped several stations later, and they disembarked. They climbed out of the station. "Sorry, John, I'm afraid we're in for a bit of a –"

"Wait, isn't that –"

They reached the top of the stairs. Sherlock turned and pulled John by the bottom of his coat back down into the terminal. _"Shit,"_ he said.

_"No – _never mind," John whispered. _"What the hell?"_

"No time, John," Sherlock replied quickly, turning and thrusting his ticket back into the gate. "Come on; at least he didn't see us. If we're lucky, he doesn't know where we're staying, and we can get mum and Marie out."

"Yeah, well, maybe," John replied, following, "but in case you didn't know, Sherlock, you're pretty tall, and I _think_ he was waiting for you…" John turned to look over his shoulder. "Yeah, he was. Come on," he said, pushing Sherlock, as Adam cleared the first landing on his way down.

"Coincidences, John…" Sherlock said, now running, "never trust them."

They wound their way through the terminal. _Too damn bad that it doesn't have trains both incoming and outgoing that are easily accessible…_ "Sherlock, he's at the gate…"

Sherlock was eying the rails.

"No. _NO!_ I am _not_ doing that again, no, _no, NO!_ You nearly gave me heart failure the _last_ time…"

"All right, all _right,_ but…" Sherlock glanced behind John. Adam was having a hard time with the gate. A wind was starting to pick up through the tunnel. "If we try to go out the other exit, he could have someone waiting…"

"Do you know what he wants?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced at him. "Do you really want to find out?"

_Point._ The train was entering the tunnel. Adam was arguing with the attendant. "So you want to…"

"Well, I don't think we have a choice now, do you?"

"It's that or take our chances on the other end of the terminal."

The train pulled in. Adam was jumping the gate.

_"Sherlock!"_

Sherlock glanced around. There was a kid beat-boxing for money halfway down the platform, and another doing mime in the other direction. "I hate mime," he muttered. He hurried down to the kid beat-boxing and whispered in his ear, slipping him a few bills. The kid nodded, and Sherlock gestured to John. The train doors opened. John glanced up – and, over the heads of tens of passengers, met Adam's green gaze. Sherlock pulled him into the train as…

_What in God's creation…?_

"I've_ told_ you and _told_ you not to be _up_ in my _spot, _yo!" The beat-boxer pushed through the crowd, capturing Adam between him and the mime and plowing them both over to the ground. "This is _my_ turf, _I've_ paid…"

The train doors closed on the sight of Adam fruitlessly struggling to get out from under _both_ the beat-boxer and the mime – who said nothing at all.

They spent the next hour investigating the many public transportation options downtown Boston offered before finally emerging at Logan Airport – again. "Sherlock… what the hell?" John wearily asked – for what was _surely_ the millionth time.

"Forgive me, John; but I can reliably and quickly get one of Mycroft's people here – ah, here it comes now – with fairly little to-do."

A small blue Kia pulled up outside the station.

"A _Kia?_ Doesn't seem like Mycroft's style…"

"Which is why Mycroft doesn't do groundwork, and I do," Sherlock replied. He opened the passenger door and peered in. "Uncle Jack, I'm so glad to see you!"

"It's been far too long," the man inside replied, "what, since we navigated the Hudson?"

"Remember that incredible Bakery we found?"

"Get in," the guy said, and Sherlock climbed in, nodding for John to do the same.

"We're good," he said.

John collapsed into the rear seat of the car. _Why wouldn't he have chosen a vehicle more suited to his frame? Then again, on the scale of questions…_

Sherlock pulled out his phone. "Mycroft," he said. "Yes, I know... No... Ha, ha... Yes, anything you have – well, apparently, he _isn't_ anymore… Met us at Park Street… Listen, Mycroft, you have to move… Fine, where… Yes, you're bloody brilliant… Did you get the company names I sent?... All right… I was going to go to Wellesley and spend the rest of the time poking around Harvard tomorrow, but now… _Yes,_ I can handle him…" Sherlock twitched. "He's fine… Yes, of course… I thought they only handled American affairs?... Oh, naturally, your personal… _No,_ I don't want their interfe – 'assistance.'" He sighed. "No… No… _No, Mycroft, I don't want to talk…_ Hello, dad… Fine… Fine… Fine… Yes…. Fine… Bye." He shoved the phone back into his pocket.

"Do you want to tell me…"

"I will." Sherlock turned to the driver. "Omni Parker House."

John chuckled. "Oh, _that's_ subtle."

"Mycroft made the reservations and mum is already there, so we might as well enjoy it. He's also got personally chosen agents watching her – and us, by the way, with cameras both inside and outside the rooms, so we'll have to bear that in mind."

"Christ." _Wait…_ "Agents… from where?"

"CIA."

"I need some aspirin. And a sedative. And probably a beta-blocker before we're done." John sat staring out his window at Boston Harbor. "Say, let's take Marie and mum to the Aquarium tomorrow. And maybe the Museum of Science day after that. God, Sherlock, I'm tired. Do you suppose Oliver is…" He sighed. _He's fine. I have to believe he's fine, or I'll go insane._

"Isaac is back in Cambridge," Sherlock said quietly.

_"What?"_

"Without Oliver."

"Oh. My. God."

"Actually, John…" Sherlock continued, "if you think about it, that might be a good thing. He's probably been… adopted. By a family who _wanted_ him. So he's probably safe."

"Or sold for…" _I can't. I can't even think about it. My son. Our son. Mine and Mary's. Or Sherlock and Mary's. Or Sherlock and Mary's and mine. Or… oh, my God, Oliver._ He pressed his face into his palms and his throat started closing.

"We'll get him back, John. I know it doesn't seem it, but we did make progress today."

"Tell me, then, because it seems to me like all we did was sightsee and ride subways."

"I've got the names of the two most likely agencies that would have – given Oliver up for adoption, and a couple of names of families who have used those agencies recently. Mycroft is searching to see if any adoptions have been approved within the last 48 hours. I'll cross those with couples who have had IVF treatments over the last few years in the area… and…" he became abruptly quiet.

"And?" John lifted his face. They were driving past an open market with many people out despite the cool air and relatively late hour.

"And now… with a very specific name as well," he ended quietly.

John pulled the napkin from his pocket. He held it up to the window so he could better read it. _Call me, S – Adam. Missed you. 617/555-4671._

He reread the note a few times. He pulled his own phone from his pocket and entered the name and number as a contact, as well as the text as a note. Then, "Sherlock…"

"Mm."

"He gave me a note to give you as we were leaving."

"Did he."

"Do… do you want it?"

Moments passed.

"Do you want me to have it?"

_What am I supposed to say to that?_ "Ah… Just take it, Sherlock." He thrust it over the seat back. Sherlock took it and stuck it, without a glance, into his pocket – and they rode the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen: Of History Questioned

"Sherlock," John said, sliding into bed beside him. They'd made it through the lobby, released Sherlock's mother from her day-long lockdown, changed Marie and laid her in the crib allotted by the hotel, and were finally – blissfully – alone.

"Mm," Sherlock replied, sliding his finger again and again down the face of his phone as he scrolled through the notes he'd made.

John sighed and let his head drop onto the pillow. _He isn't going to say a damn thing about it,_ he thought. _Not one bloody damn thing._ He rolled up onto his side away from Sherlock, the exhaustion of the past several days swallowing him. "Maybe I should just ask Mycroft," he muttered, shutting his eyes.

He hadn't _entirely_ meant to say it out loud; but on the other hand, he was _very_ frustrated, and the truth was that somewhere in him, he knew that _that_ would get results. Perhaps not the ones he wanted, but something, anyway.

"Ask Mycroft what?"

"Who the hell Adam Emerson is."

Sherlock paused for several moments, still scrolling through his phone. "He played cello for the BSO. And he taught math at Harvard."

"And?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "And then he moved to Chicago." He turned back to his phone. "Or so I thought."

"Sherlock!"

"Mm?"

John sighed loudly and pulled the covers up over himself.

"Well, clearly, either he's moved back, or he's followed us here," Sherlock said in his "I'm being extremely patient" tone.

"Really." John shook his head and closed his eyes.

Sherlock set his phone down on the hillock of covers over his thighs. "Something. Wrong."

"Forget it."

"No, John, spit it out."

John opened his eyes and stared at the wall. Finally he turned over. "And what was he to _you,_ Sherlock?"

"I should think that would have been obvious, John," Sherlock said quietly, scrolling slowly again, though he left the phone on his legs.

John sighed and turned back away from Sherlock.

"It was a long time ago, and it's over."

"Apparently, he doesn't think so."

"Well, who the hell has ever known what Adam Emerson thought?" Sherlock asked with some heat.

John glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock set the phone on the bedside table and turned out the light. He slid down beside John. "The man is a bastard, John; he always has been. I was very young, and I didn't realize it – either how young I was, or how… _not_ young he was." He set a hand on John's shoulder. "It doesn't change anything between us – at least, it doesn't for me – and I'd really rather not discuss it much more tonight."

"Will you tell me sometime?" John asked, still peering over his shoulder at Sherlock, though the room had been cast into that semi-darkness common to hotel rooms.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, "just… not tonight. And maybe… not all at once. All right?"

John hesitated, but eventually, he nodded.

"Thank you." Sherlock kissed the nape of his neck, his lips lingering consolingly on the tender flesh.

John closed his eyes, letting the chill caress him. When he finally turned, Sherlock's breath was raising all of the small hairs on his neck, and John's lips sought his as unerringly as his hand sought Sherlock's waist. He kissed Sherlock hungrily, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's with a fervor that surprised him and sliding his hand up along Sherlock's spine to rest between his shoulder blades.

"I have been waiting all day for this," John whispered at last, then brought his lips to Sherlock's again, gently kissing them one at a time, tasting them.

Sherlock pulled back, kissing him repeatedly, tenderly – almost too tenderly, and John moved his hand behind Sherlock's head, twining his fingers through the curls. He nipped Sherlock's lip, and Sherlock smiled. "Patience, John," he replied quietly. "All things…" he slid on top of John, smiling again, "…in due time." He tasted John's mouth, pressing their hips together, and John groaned.

Sherlock pushed himself up on his forearms. He stared down at John, brushing his fingers through his hair. "What do you want?" Sherlock whispered.

John's eyes widened, and he flushed. "Christ, Sherlock."

Sherlock's smile twitched. "Not quite. Anything else?"

John grinned. "You."

Sherlock bent his neck and traced the outline of John's lips with the tip of his tongue. John kept trying to pull him in, but Sherlock was having none of it, and eventually pinned him to the bed at the wrists.

"You're stronger than you look," John panted.

"Leverage," Sherlock replied, "and motivation. Now. What do you want?"

"You!" John's brow furrowed. He bent his neck, trying to reach Sherlock's mouth.

"Ah, ah. Specifics, love." Sherlock grinned and kissed him, drawing John's tongue into his mouth. He kissed him languorously, stroking his tongue again and again, then sat over him once more. "What do you want?"

"God, Sherlock, I don't care. Just…"

Sherlock rolled his erection by John's.

John moaned.

"I could just…" he did it again, and John closed his eyes. "…do this for awhile. Would you like that? Never get you undressed at all, and…" he did it again, and John's breath hitched. "…hmm," Sherlock wondered aloud. "Do you know, I expect I could probably bring you, just…" he rolled once more, and John's erection jumped, "…like" he did it one last time, and John gasped, "…this."

"Christ, Sherlock," John muttered again.

Sherlock fell forward, kissing John hard, and there was nothing teasing about it now. His hands were sliding beneath John's T-shirt, and John's knee was sidling up along Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock peeled John's shirt off – and then repeated the process with his own, dropping finally back on John and kissing him with startling gentleness.

John's fingers combed again through Sherlock's hair, turning and twisting through his curls as Sherlock's tongue explored his mouth. John caressed his neck and ears, trying desperately to unhinge him. Sherlock's tender lips were brushing against John's neck and collarbone, moving ever downwards, and John's skin – his whole being – was pulsing.

"Hm…" John whimpered, sliding his palms along Sherlock's ribs to his hips, until his fingertips found his waistband.

At which point Sherlock's phone rang.

And Marie woke, crying.

Sherlock's head thudded against John's chest. "Damn," he whispered.

Marie started whimpering, and John rolled out from under Sherlock. "Parenthood, love," he said. Sherlock's phone rang again.

"Damn," Sherlock repeated, his hand slamming heavily upon his phone. "What?" he said into it.

John picked Marie up and crossed to her things, stooping to get the necessary supplies for a fresh bottle.

"Yes, of _course,_ we were sleeping… Really… Name?..." Sherlock paused and whispered, _"John, get me that pen!"_ gesturing wildly at the desk.

John turned and glanced frantically around until he saw a pretentious hotel pen and blank pad tucked within a folder. He jogged across the room with Marie to Sherlock and handed them over.

"Uh huh… Harris… Biochemistry… yes, I've got it, I was going to go over there tomorrow anyway. Thanks, Mycroft… Goodnight." He hung up and set the phone down.

John glanced up at him as he ran warm water over his wrist and swayed Marie on his hip.

"Mycroft thinks he may have found Isaac's US contact. He's a professor at Harvard – strangely enough, one of the places we were headed tomorrow anyway."

John smiled. "Finally. We're getting somewhere."

Sherlock looked as if John had hit him in the gut. "John…"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I only meant…" He assembled the bottle, shook it, and crossed to the bed. "Do you want to feed her?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She's your…" He turned away, the words fading in his mouth.

John pressed Marie to Sherlock's chest and set the bottle in his hand. "I only meant that _I_ can't hear what you're thinking, Sherlock, and you've been awfully quiet today. Even for you." Sherlock's arm tightened around the baby, and his fingers finally accepted the bottle. After a moment, he peered at John through his forelock, which hung askew. He looked down at Marie and rubbed the bottle against her lower lip. She watched him seriously, pursed her lips, batted at the bottle, then took the nipple with a frown. "He doesn't know what we're thinking, does he?" Sherlock asked her. He shook his head. "No. He doesn't. Doesn't have the faintest idea what's going on in our heads."

John broke out laughing.

Sherlock turned his head and stared fiercely at him.

"Sherlock," John asked, grinning, "are you _baby-talking_ our _daughter?"_

Sherlock looked slowly back at Marie, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Would _I_ do that?" he asked her. "No. I wouldn't. Would I? No."

John leaned over and kissed his cheek. "So much for romance," he said quietly.

Sherlock glanced sideways at him and back down at Marie, and grinned. "Yes," he said, his voice now totally given over to the infant, "oh, yes, our little mood-breaker, you've completely spoiled the atmosphere, haven't you?"

Marie grinned in response, and milk dribbled out both sides of her mouth.

"Look!" John exclaimed. "Sherlock, look! A smile!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Imagine that," he said drily.


End file.
